


Cow Bells and Snow Globes

by Pimento



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Alternate Universe - Romantic Comedy, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Bottom Cas Big Bang 2020 (Supernatural), Clumsy Dean Winchester, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, POV Alternating, Power Bottom Castiel (Supernatural), Russian Castiel (Supernatural), Slow Burn, Top Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:48:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 24,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24642805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pimento/pseuds/Pimento
Summary: It really doesn't matter what the gossip columns say. Dean knows the International Ski Champion Castiel Novak, aka, Casanova of the Slopes is actually just Cas. Loyal, kind, caring Cas. The same Cas he's absolutely not had a crush on since they were teenagers on the competitive circuit.He's had two plus decade's practice at hiding his feelings, how difficult can it be to suppress them a little longer.They just so happen to be in the same ski resort, at the same time for an entire season, so Dean is damn well gonna enjoy having his friend back in his life for a while and not screw it up. The fact that he seems to have the magic touch with the grumpy teenage daughter that Cas is trying so desperately to reconnect with is just an opportunity to ease his friends' troubles while he finds his feet again.
Relationships: Benny Lafitte & Dean Winchester, Castiel & Benny Lafitte & Dean Winchester, Castiel & Claire Novak, Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel & Meg Masters, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Claire Novak & Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 58
Kudos: 91
Collections: Bottom Cas Big Bang 2019





	1. Little Miss Pissy Pants

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is multi-chapter, but some of the chapters are very short as it's told as a series of snapshots. The present POV switches between Dean and Cas, but the past is told from Dean's viewpoint only.
> 
> If short chapters annoy you I'd recommend switching to whole story view. Hope it's funny and sweet, with a bit of angst and the obligatory slow-burn, miscommunication and skullduggery of other characters.
> 
> It's mainly Dean, Cas and Claire, with brief mentions and interventions by other characters.

It has taken Dean all of ten minutes to win round the pretty blonde teenager he is serving. Her pout gradually diminishing and the initial grunted one word answers stretching into interested questions of her own as he explains the reasons for the stock choices in the Mountain Supplies store. “Benny, the owner, is determined to only carry brands that have proven environmental credentials,” he explains. “He thinks it’s especially important that those relying on snow and ice for their income do everything they can to protect the Earth.” Eat your heart out, Sammy, he thinks, I’m totally selling this environmental shit. His floppy haired, hipster brother would be so proud.

She smirks at him. “Yeah, well, global warming kinda kills the trade in ski wear, duh.”

There is an adult lurking in town, somewhere, or so she informs him with a mixture of pride and annoyance, the pride shines through when she mentions she ‘lost’ them within the first ten minutes of arriving in the small town. The annoyance he suspects comes from the fact she realises her spending money is currently walking the streets, rather than being available to pay for her ski wear. Dean only feels mildly guilty as he tells her about the stores’ set aside service. The idea that she can choose everything and let someone else come back and pay for it has her beaming at him.

“They don’t even need to come in,” he tells her with an answering grin, “if they call with the card number, I can ring it up and we’ll deliver it all to your hotel.”

“We’re not staying in a hotel,” she grumbles, face screwing up with disdain once more. “ _He_ has a cabin. It’s miles from the slopes and even further from town. But _we need our privacy_ , apparently.”

“What name should I put down?”

“Claire,” she says, awkwardly thrusting out a hand as an afterthought.

Dean shakes it solemnly, suppressing his amusement, it’s frustrating enough to be a nearly adult without the real thing laughing at you for it. He remembers the feeling well, even if he is a full two decades and change out of his own teens.

She has no such scruples when he asks gently about her weight and height, explaining it’s important for ski equipment and just laughs heartily at him. “I know, I’ve been skiing since I was tiny, you doofus!”

He kneels down and measures her feet and she picks her ski-boots with confidence and efficiency that proves she isn’t lying about her knowledge of skiing. But when they move onto off-piste footwear, they must go through thirty or forty pairs before she finally settles on the ones she wants.

By the time he has finished reboxing and stacking the discarded snow boots, she has moved deeper into the store, through the curved archway into the clothing section. She stares into space, absent-mindedly running soft fingertips down the sleeve of a plum coloured garment.

“That hoodie you’re stroking so lovingly…” he pauses when she starts and gives him a sharp look, but it is full of rueful good humour, a massive improvement on the dagger laden glares she had started with, “... the only bit that isn’t recycled is the zipper.”

“Seriously!” She turns the tag over to take a look. “Everything but the teeth,” she reads and then putting every scrap of teen disdain known to Man she finishes, “Better Sweater?!? Lame. Couldn’t they come up with a better name than that!”

Dean offers her a smaller size and she rejects it with a firm shake of her head and pulls the medium-sized garment on over her head, long elegant fingers flexing into the fabric. “Ok then, baggy fit it is, kiddo.” Dean sputters a laugh when she rolls her eyes at him.

She pulls the hoodie back off, long blond hair sparking with static, despite the natural fibres and adds it firmly onto the steadily growing ‘yes pile’ she has already built up on one of the benches alongside the counter. True to form, she is quick and efficient in her choice of actual ski-wear but takes much longer picking accessories and off-piste wear. She just has socks to add, and that will be a full set up, with enough extras and spares to allow for dry out and laundry for at least two sessions a day. Dean scans an expert eye over the pile and he has to admit she knows what she’s at. He hopes to God that she wasn’t fibbing about her budget. Benny could do with the income.

She can’t choose between the pastel and bright socks, so dumps both on her pile. Can’t have too many socks, right! And begins to bundle back up in her existing cold-weather gear, it’s all clearly at least a year old, showing signs of wear and a little on the small side. He hands her a card with the store details on it.

“Thanks, Dean,” she says smiling. A funny look crosses her face and she darts towards the side street exit, pausing briefly to turn and wave at him from the door as she leaves. The cowbell, Benny liberated during one of their many European adventures jangles on its string over the door as it shuts behind her.

“Care to share how you managed to do that.” Dean jumps slightly at the sound of a familiar gravel worn voice and glances up at the tall dark-haired man leaning casually, arms crossed, shoulder braced into the wooden archway that separates footwear from clothes. Benny really needs to either close off one of the doors or get an extra bell. Dean didn’t even hear him come in through the front door. “I’m still recovering from the tongue lashing I received this morning when I tried to ask her what colour salopettes she wanted,” the rumbling voice continues, the soft hint of a barely-there accent which combined with his stunning looks and impossibly blue eyes have made it so easy for him to seduce just about anyone he chooses. Powers the tabloid stories would have everyone believe he abused regularly. Dean knows better. At least he thought he did.

Dean grins, good-naturedly. “Well, hello to you too, Novak. I didn’t know you were in town.” The penny drops. Claire, he thinks. _She_ is _that_ Claire.

“Hm.” The returning gummy grin transforms his face from brooding handsome into something far younger and altogether more vibrant. “Arrived late last night. That yellow-haired fire-cracker you were so effortlessly charming is, indeed, that Claire."

"How do you do that?" Dean blurts.

"Like it's that hard to read you," Castiel says, dismissively. 

"I'll have you know I have a mean reputation as a poker player and..." Dean chokes on his words as Castiel raises an eyebrow and he remembers just who he is talking to about playing poker. He's spent far too many teenage evenings in is his tiny whites opposite this man to have bragging rights over poker prowess.

"We were supposed to be shopping for clothes together. You’d think I was trying to sell her soul. Seriously, I’m getting so much cold shoulder I feel like rolling down the piste naked again, just to warm myself back up.”

Dean blushes furiously at the memory of seeing his teen crush stripping out of his clothes, eyes sparkling with mischief, face alive with the glee at being young and foolish and free of his authoritarian masters. He can feel the heat burning up from his throat into his cheeks, at the sudden flashback imagery.

He's so lost in thought it's only when he realises his old friend is looking at him questioningly, that he realised he zoned out.

“Earth to Winchester: I asked if you wanted to share your magic touch with Miss Pissy Pants?”

Dean scans Cas’ face for any hint of jealousy or hurt, and sees only amusement. “Perhaps not referring to her as Miss Pissy Pants?” he suggests.

“She can’t hear me!” Castiel grins and then sighs. “She was much easier to charm when I could just spin her around and play airplanes. Now that we both know I’m not _just_ one of Mummy’s old friends, I am transformed into the ‘devil incarnate’.”

It’s only 18 months since Meg Masters succumbed to breast cancer. The news that she had stipulated in her will that Claire should live with Castiel after her death had surprised many, but not Dean. Mike Masters’ family were assholes, if he were in Meg’s shoes he’d probably have chosen Castiel, too. But then Dean knows Castiel to be a kind, caring and loyal man, completely unlike his public image as a heartbreaker.

The exact nature of Cas’ relationship with Meg had often been the subject of the gossip columns since Mike’s death just before Claire’s birth. Their inner circle knew they were not romantically involved, but that didn’t stop the journalists implying more. When has the truth ever mattered when it comes to selling magazines and newspapers. Dean had never been particularly fond of Meg, finding her too sharp-tongued, but he is sincere enough when he says, “It can’t have been an easy couple of years. For either of you.”

Cas shrugs. His expression: A little too carefully controlled. Dean isn’t fooled for a moment. They may not see each other as often as they once did, but Dean can see the grief and pain just under the stoic facade.

“So,” Cas changes the subject abruptly as he hands Dean a subtly shaded credit card to pay for the huge pile of clothes and equipment, (only flashy assbutts carry gold cards, Dean.) “Fancy grabbing some hot chocolate and a catch up? I can’t remember the last time we were in the same place at the same time long enough for me to say much more than ‘Hello Dean’” It’s true, they comment on each other's social media, share stupid memes, chat on messenger and call or skype for Birthday wishes and seasonal greetings, but opportunities to actually talk for very long are few and far between. To actually meet in person even rarer. Despite their common origins, they both have busy lives and move in very different circles these days and there’s been a court case absorbing much of Castiel’s attention. At least Dean hopes that’s why they’ve barely been in touch for most of the last year.

Cas pushes up his sleeve to check his watch, and Dean is momentarily lost in flexing arm muscles. He shakes himself. Concentrate. “I think...” Castiel glances at the bill, as if he barely even notices a figure that Dean would be lucky to make from a full month of ski-coaching, “yes, we’re pretty much finished in town, how about you?”

“Me?” Dean’s voice does not squeak. It does not. He clears his throat.

“What time can I steal you away from all this?” Cas indicates the shop and the open shoe boxes.

“Ah, oh any time,” Dean says, realising suddenly what Cas means. “I don’t actually work in here, well, I mean I am working in here,” he stammers a little at the dark eyebrow which is arching rapidly, “clearly I’m wearing a name badge and a uniform polo, but I’m just giving Benny a hand, he…”

“LaFitte is here!? Jesus, I thought that old reprobate would have been drummed out of town by now. Or fallen off the mountain into a ravine somewhere on one of his extreme adventures. So this is what he’s doing with himself now… managing a shop… bit of a comedown for a daredevil like ‘The Bat’.”

The barb rankles a little. These two have been feuding for as long as Dean can remember. Far more than the usual rivalry between boarder and skier. “He’s not the manager, he owns the store, but there’s some ‘thing’ with the bank that he needed to get to…” Dean stops suddenly aware that maybe Benny would not like it if Cas of all people was aware just how much he is struggling to keep his head above water. “He’ll be back by four, but I gotta go check-in and dump my stuff.” He nods towards a duffel bag, half-tucked behind the serving counter. “I came straight here off the bus this morning and...then Benny was...and he had to...” He’s aware he’s babbling, but can’t seem to stop himself.

“You didn’t fly in?” Cas asks and then his face softens into something almost fond. “I thought you were over that.”

That. His fear of flying is not the reason he came in on the red-eye greyhound. Well, not the entire reason anyway. It’s just the bus is a third of the price, even before he factors in the extra baggage cost of the kit he’s currently stashed somewhere in the depths of Benny’s stockroom.

He realises he hasn’t responded and Cas has looked away, a faint blush on the one cheek left turned towards Dean as Cas stares out into the street. Crap. Now the silence is awkward, Dean clears his throat to speak, but Cas is already pressing on. “Look I better go find Claire, before she gets in even more trouble. Her grandmother hates me enough as it is, and I’m sure she would relish the chance to throw charges of child endangerment at me. I’ll come back at closing time, say half-six and collect this little lot. We can grab a drink and I’ll give you a lift to your hotel.”

And with that, he is turning on his heel and striding away across the shop towards the main front entrance. Dammit, now Dean has a little over four hours to come up with an excuse for not letting Cas drive him to the hostel. Maybe he can just get him to drop him at one of the hotels, but then he will probably want to come in for a drink, and… Goddammit, there’s no shame in hostelling it. Hell, they stayed in enough hostel dorms when they were youngsters on the circuit before Castiel’s competitive career went supernova and Dean injured his knee and watched his own dreams turn to powder. The town is full at the start of the season, most of the hotels were fully booked anyway, the hostel is way more comfortable than Benny’s broken down sofa, even if it were available (it’s not; he’s already hosting a couple of his snowboarding prodigies) and most importantly; almost as cheap.

He watches the tall figure of his friend, bending slightly in a little bow, as he holds the door open for two women who enter the store. Dean barely registers their agitated conversation, until they come closer and he can’t avoid it.

“Did you see who that was?” the taller of the two is twittering excitedly.

“Do you think it really was?” her companion’s eyes are wide and shining.

“Casanova himself, Downhill and Slalom World Champion…” the taller one is nodding.

“Well, he can race down my slopes any day,” the woman giggles. Press rumours of Cas’ conquests have been staple gossip for years. His enigmatic silence on the subject of his love life had only increased his reputation as a heartbreaker, so when one particularly spiteful older hack christened him The Casanova of the Slopes when he was little more than 21, mainly because Cas had refused her pretty obvious attempts to take him to her bed, it had stuck.

Presumably noticing Dean’s red face clashing with the purple uniform polo, emblazoned with the Mountain Supplies logo and assuming the blush to be the result of their conversation, her friend admonishes her, “Clarice! Oh my God, I swear you say the most inappropriate things.”

The two laugh and Dean finds himself suffering an appraising look, which does nothing to slow his blushes. A few years ago he might have enjoyed their lascivious attention, but those days are long passed. Still, he can maybe use it to Benny’s advantage. He gives them a force ten charming smile. “Hello ladies, are you here to book lessons, or have you come for a browse of the merchandise?"

"Can't I do both," Clarice says, her eyes roving without any hint of shame over his muscular body before she returns her gaze to his face. Heaven help me, Dean thinks, did she just wink at me…


	2. Sneaks on the Peaks Blog August 21, 2018

Casanova of the Slopes: Has he finally become the DILF we’ve all been dreaming about?

Castiel Novak has been topping the sexiest man on snow list for so long the only thing stopping him from being that fantasy DILF we’d all like to dream of was the absence of any offspring, but maybe our prayers have been answered.

By **Andreas Martin** August 21, 2018 03:46 PM

×

Let’s be honest, dear reader, we were all a bit shocked when it emerged that the former World Champion skier had become embroiled in a custody battle over Goddaughter Claire Masters. Almost as shocked as we were in 2002 when those infamous christening images first leaked. Remember, the imploding ovaries? Hot stuff Castiel Novak tenderly cradling a six month old baby. Phew-wee. Then, oh, the drama, whose baby was it? Why none other than that of his former ‘close personal friend’ and widow of his greatest rival, that’s who!

But, here at Sneaks on the Peaks, we have discovered that things are even more complicated than we first thought. It seems that his parenthood may be a little more than just godly! Spoilers! But first a quick recap for anyone who’s been asleep for the last decade.

_ SKIP TO THE LATEST _

The news of the upcoming custody challenge was broken in a statement by long time family lawyer, Zachariah Adler, back in May last year. “The Masters family announce that, with great reluctance, they intend to challenge the last will and testament of their daughter-in-law, Margaret Masters. Her battle with cancer and the debilitating effects of intensive bouts of radio and chemotherapy clearly had a devastating effect on her mental well-being. Her decision to name Mr Novak as administrator of the trust she set up for our beloved granddaughter Claire is not at issue, although it came as a shock, but her decision to legalise his guardianship of Claire in secret prior to her death and his subsequent refusal to reverse the same has left the family with no choice but to fight for their kin.”

This was the first we all heard, dear reader, about the contents of not so favourite daughter-in-law Meg’s will. Her intention that 15 year old Claire should reside with Novak with full parental rights following her heart-wrenching battle with illness and her tragic death from breast cancer at the age of only 43 certainly came out of the deep blue. (Almost as blue as those eyes, sigh!)

The family’s, (read matriarch Naomi’s) disapproval of oldest son, Mike’s, choice of wife is the worst kept secret in Winter Sports. The elopement of the ice rinks favourite bad girl and golden boy downhiller Masters back in 1997 was certainly the apres ski hot topic of that season and judging by the unco-ordinated reactions from family members, the normally well-oiled Master’s Inc. publicity machine was caught well and truly on the back foot.

Sitting on their own combined millions, amassed from sponsorship and with the potential for future lucrative advertising contracts following their union, the winter sports star couple could have little to fear from threats of the Masters’ heir being disowned. But even so it must have been true love. It takes a brave man to risk upsetting Naomi Masters.

Objections to the lady were many and varied, from her numerous brushes with the law and those notorious paparazzi photos. Who hasn’t accepted a dare to skate naked on an ornamental lake or two! But perhaps her worst indiscretion was that ‘close personal friendship’ with The Casanova himself. Afterall, there’s nothing recommends you to your future in-law’s better than being ‘best friends’ with their golden boy’s greatest rival.

**1\. The Ice War**

We can’t mention Novak or Masters without reference to arguably, the greatest sporting rivalry of the 90’s. With Masters a full three years older than Novak, we were denied seeing the two compete as juniors, but after the Russian’s phenomenal and explosive break-out into the Seniors… oh boy, dear reader! We certainly got our eye full.

It’s way too cliche, of course. The ice-cool, steely Russian versus the all-American hero? Come on, it was all just so 60’s, but still it seemed inevitable, and let’s be honest, dear reader, we all lapped it up.

It’s not clear exactly when it happened. But that competitive rivalry on the slopes erupted via a war of words in various interviews into a full blown feud within a couple of years. Maybe having been the golden haired boy wonder, himself, Masters was jealous of his tall, dark and handsome Russian nemesis. It can’t have been easy when the teen sensation burst onto the senior circuit, coming close to doing the double at the ‘92 Winter Olympics in Albertville at just 18 years of age, pushing Masters into bronze for the downhill and becoming the youngest male winner of an Olympic ski title by taking the slalom Gold medal. Things certainly ignited after the Russian’s defection to the US the following year. The threat of losing his dominance in Team USA was probably a bitter pill to swallow for Masters coming on the back of his own disastrous showing at the Games.

Whatever the truth, it was certainly the start of a golden age for US skiing, with the two of them vying for dominance, other International athletes in the sport could be forgiven for regarding third place as the greatest accolade obtainable.

It was rumoured that team manager Fergus Crowley tried to encourage the talented Russian emigre to concentrate on the slalom instead of continuing his dual entries, so that Masters could have a clear field in the downhill. He, of course, heavily denied it, commenting, “Masters doesn’t need me fighting his battles for him. I’ve never liked to see athletes stretch themselves too thin. Competing in both as a junior is one thing, but with the rigorous demands of the adult competition…Novak may just find it too much, it will take a prodigious talent to succeed in both.”

But succeed he did. Novak took every major medal and championship in the slalom throughout his entire career. In fact, his name is only missing for one year, while his US citizenship was expedited. And in the downhill, Masters had to settle for winning the World Championship only twice during the decade, once in that unchallenged year and once more in 1999.

Responding to a question about how it felt to be bested by Masters after his defeat in Beaver Creek , Novak commented: “It is best to let the cat catch the toy once in a while, for sure. It may get bored of the chase, otherwise.” Sour grapes as reported by just about everyone but us here at Sneaks? Perhaps. More likely, judging by the twinkle in those fabulous blue eyes, it was just, yet another example of his famed dry humour not translating well in reportage.

On paper, Novak looks the easy winner of the intense battle between the two greatest skiers of a generation, but in fairness to Masters it was always a close run thing. How many times were we going into the last race of the season with everything to ski for, dear reader? Certainly the Alpine World Cup, has seemed positively pedestrian since their rivalry came to its tragic conclusion with Masters death in a helicopter crash over the mountains in 2001.

Novak’s shock announcement of his decision to retire at the end of the same season certainly caused fury amongst Team US and the FIS alike. As one anonymous source within the American sports governing body was widely reported as saying, “The atmosphere before Mike’s death was terrible. Constant arguments, ill-tempered outbursts. He was clearly not a happy man and many within Team USA rightly or wrongly chose to point the finger of blame at Novak, there are some who have always resented his inclusion in the team, right from the very beginning.”

Regardless of the reasons, forgive us the liberty, dear reader, but to slightly misquote dear Oscar: “To lose one World Champion was a tragedy, to lose two smacks of willful neglect.”

**2\. The Golden Child**

It was the iconic picture of the early 2000’s? The tall figure of Naomi Masters, supported by her remaining sons and her husband weeping at the graveside, while the tiny figure of his widow, stood alone, one hand resting on her stomach the other hidden under her veil. The tableau couldn’t scream renaissance tragedy any louder if we combined the talents of Boticelli and Titian. But out of all that sorrow was born something beautiful.

In the final chapter of his biography, Mike Masters: Lion of the Mountains, author Carver Edland, quotes Naomi as saying (about the birth of Claire Michelle Masters some six months later).

“She was his last gift to us. This tiny golden child, so like him, even a few hours after birth. Nothing could ever replace my beautiful son, but she came close. Holding her was like a salve to the burn, a cooling balm for our loss. When her tiny hands grasped my fingers I felt I could breathe again. It was as if he was there, telling me to dry my tears, through that familiar grip.”

The author had unlimited access to the Masters family papers. And other unofficial biographies are available. Certainly, it’s hard to find other sources that frame the couples decision to make Minnesota their home, as a purely career based decision.

**RELATED: - Homes of the Rich and Famous. Inside the New Orleans family home of Benny ‘The Bat’ Lafitte as the former darling of extreme sports sells up to fund his Mountain Supplies store dream.**

A former employee, who worked for the family at the time, told US Weekly later that Naomi Masters was “a true monster-in-law.”

“In all honesty, I’m only surprised that Meg lasted so many weeks in Washington. She and Mike were truly fire and ice, they fought like tigers. Most of the time they lived on an adrenaline high, but his family certainly provided added conflict. Maybe that’s what Mike needed, someone who knew how to handle his temper without smothering him. Certainly, his mother both doted on him and fiercely controlled him until Meg came on the scene.”

“Naomi was so determined to continue exercising that control... Even living three states distant and with them away on the circuit half the year at a time, she did everything she could to interfere and make her feelings known. I think Meg was the only one who ever had the guts to say no to her.”

It was certainly unexpected when speaking after Claire’s birth in 2002, Naomi was effusive in her praise of her ‘brave’ daughter-in-law. Genuine, or a desperate attempt to mend bridges to have access to her granddaughter? Who knows, dear reader, who can guess!

Meg was notoriously reticent on the subject of their relationship, and was certainly fierce about protecting her child’s privacy. Unafraid to use the courts to keep pictures of the youngster out of the media. She broke her silence only once on the subject in a rare interview for a cover story for Cosmopolitan on the tenth anniversary of Mike’s death saying, “The Masters and (Naomi) sic will always be an important part of Claire’s life. She is a bright, beautiful young girl and I want her to grow into a strong, independent woman. It’s much easier to do that with _all_ your family in your life. Naomi is the epitome of a strong, independent woman, but then so am I! Has our relationship always been easy? No. I think that’s a matter of public record. But Claire, like it or not, is a Masters and Naomi is her grandmother. I owe it to her, to Claire, to make sure she maintains that link with her father’s family.”

So what happened to change her mind? Why did she secretly ensure that Novak took legal guardianship? Ah, all shall be revealed, dear reader, all shall be revealed.

**4\. That all important exclusive**

We, at Sneaks on the Peaks, can exclusively report that a court mandated DNA test has revealed that none other than Mr Castiel Novak is the biological father of one Claire Michelle Masters.

So far all requests for comment from either camp in the bitter custody battle have been refused.

The source of the leak remains unknown, even to us here, but along with the leaked results we were given the tasty little tidbit that the DNA test was requested by the Masters family lawyer following the disclosure of a diary and that Novak only complied under court order. Now quite where this leaves the legal battle remains to be seen. But rest assured, dear reader, you will hear it here first as soon as we know.

**By Andreas Martin**

Follow us on twitter and instagram @sneaksonthepeaks for more exclusive stories as they break. Or join us at sneaksonthepeaks.com for all your chilly gossip needs and latest ski reports.


	3. This Isn't My Home

Castiel could quite cheerfully kick himself. It’s a wonderful surprise to find Dean is in town. The fact that he didn’t know spells out in exquisite detail just how little they are talking lately, but there are reasons for that, excellent reasons, he tells himself. But Dean is nothing if not forgiving and they’d dropped into an easy banter, just like the old days. Then, as ever, he fucked it up. Why the hell did he mention Dean’s fear of flying? His stunned reaction is further proof, if he ever needed it, of just how far removed they are from the easy companionship of their late teens and early twenties. And he just has to go and mention one of Dean’s greatest vulnerabilities, as if it were nothing.

The sun is low in the sky, the shadows of the mountains stretching across the town, even while the peaks opposite gleam peach tinged in the dying light. Feeling vaguely gloomy, he turns back towards the side street where he left the Range Rover and that is where he catches sight of Claire. He sighs with relief and pushes his own regrets away. Claire might not want him, but she does need him and at the moment she has to be his number one priority. His promise to Meg that he would always be there for her daughter had seemed like the easiest thing in the world when he made it, gazing down at her tiny form, soft and warm in his arms. Little fists gripping his fingers. He’d enjoyed his role as her godfather, spoiling her rotten as she grew.

Reassuring Meg that he hadn’t forgotten his promise when she told him she was dying and pledging he would watch over Claire and keep her safe, protect her from the worst excesses of Mike’s family, had been an obvious extension. Anything to ease Meg’s mind while the cancer ravaged and raged through her body.

But the reality of trying to care for a teenager who wants nothing to do with you has been something else entirely.

She has been sullen and distant since he collected her after Thanksgiving from her Grandmother’s house. The viciousness of the legal battle after Meg’s death has left him reeling, but even with sole custody he thinks Claire has lost enough, so he does his best to ensure she spends at least some of the holidays with her extended family. He was not invited, of course, and Claire has come back to him even more hostile than she was before her break in New York.

It’s little surprise to him that she’s run him a merry dance all day through the resort. He was just about to give up on his ethical stance on invasion of privacy and ring the tech consultant he hired to help him try and discover how the Masters were managing to spy on him so that she can activate the app on Claire’s phone when he spotted her the first time through the window of Mountain Supplies. The flush of pleasure when he recognised the handsome profile… Dean... He shrugs the thought aside. Focus. Claire.

She is standing in a side street, peering into the window of the Christmas store that stays open all year. He can hear the jaunty notes of Christmas songs as people come and go through the door. Her mittens rest lightly on the glass either side of her nose, where it hovers close to the window. Her round-shouldered figure reflected in the glass and along his own gleaming black paintwork, like a string of papercut dolls.

He realises he is stalking her like a hunter approaching skittish prey and he shakes the tension out of his own shoulders. “There you are,” he calls, pushing his voice into the careful cheerful tones of a man who doesn’t quite know what else to say. “You ready to go?”

She doesn’t look at him, just shrugs, and moves to the side of the 4x4. It blips in greeting as he gets close enough to pick up the radar key in his pocket. He swallows his frustrated response, resisting the urge to comment, when she climbs in the back behind the driver-seat, instead of getting into the front beside him. He glances through the side window at the gaudy array of snow globes that seemed to have been holding her attention, as he starts the engine.

“I’m gonna go pick up your gear from Mountain Supplies at closing time. Dean is an old friend of mine, so I offered to give him a lift back to his hotel. I thought maybe we could stop for hot chocolate somewhere in town?” He allows his inflexion to make it a question. When he gets no response he turns himself in his seat. Her bobble hat is discarded on the seat beside her, along with her mittens, even though the interior of the car is still frigid. Her hair has fallen forward over her face. “Or I guess I could just drop you off at home first if you prefer.”

Her blonde locks bob as she nods her head, without looking up or speaking and although the expensive gadgetry of his British made vehicle makes short work of the ice on the windows it does nothing to warm the icy silence in the cabin as they drive. Fifteen minutes later, the wheels shift effortlessly from the flat top onto the compacted snow of the trail to his newly acquired cabin and Cas pulls up out front. It’s not quite dark enough yet for the auto sensor to turn on the outside lights, so he flicks onto main beams, highlighting the step onto the wide veranda.

Once he kills the engine he can hear the subtle sound of her sniffing. “You sure you don’t want me to come in with you?” he says softly, he can’t blame her for hating him, not really, he would probably hate him too in her position. But he can’t help wishing things were different, that she would let him offer her some comfort or that he knew what to say to make her feel even the tiniest bit better. “I have a little time before I need to head back into town,” he adds helplessly. “I think I have a bag of those marshmallows you like so much amongst the groceries I ordered …”

The rigid set of her shoulders drops and for one breathless moment he thinks she is going to accept his olive branch, but then she snorts. Opening the door and sliding to the ground. “I’m sixteen, not six! Maybe you should just go find yourself another hook-up, instead. Oh, and for the record, Castee-hell… this isn’t my home!” With that, she slams the door, darts sure-footed as a mountain goat over the ground and has disappeared inside before he can respond or even has time to wonder what the hell she means by ‘another hook-up’.


	4. Interlude 1: You can call me Carrie

_The steward on the plane settles Sammy into his seat and shows Dean how to buckle and unbuckle their lap belts. He doesn’t bother to tell her that he already knows how; that they are not that different from the belts his Mom insisted their Dad retrofit to the bench seat in his old car when they sold Mary’s station wagon because she wasn’t working any more. There was no question of John giving up his Baby after all._

_It was only later on when the joy of having his Mom at home, picking him up from school and walking to the park had degenerated, that he understood the brief look of sadness on her face was nothing to do with the loss of her car. Slowly but surely, she was too tired to walk, too breathless to push him on the swings. Her face screwing into something harsh and pinched when she picked Sammy from his cot or bent to tuck Dean in and kiss him Goodnight. Even as she sings, soft and low, he hears the strain._

_Once they take off it becomes apparent that the steward’s attentiveness is going to continue, she is especially kind to them when she comes to check they have unclipped their belts. Dean is wary. Adults who have been especially kind to them tend to be acting ‘in their best interests’, which Dean at the grand age of nine has worked out is adult speak for making him do things and go places he really doesn’t wanna._

_The lady in blue check dress, with warm hands who ushered them away to the chipped formica tables and uncomfortable plastic chairs when the white-coated woman made his Mom cry had bought them candy from the huge vending machines and petted Sammy’s plump pink cheek._

_The neighbour who sat with them on The Night, when John and Mary disappeared without saying goodbye in a haze of blue and red lights and slamming doors, was jolly, in her nightdress, making the hot chocolate all wrong, putting the marshmallows on top of the cream, instead of under it so they melt and go all gooey, but when Dean asked where his Mom and Dad were, she was vague and made him go to bed._

_Even the cops who picked him up, four years later, from the 7-11 where he tried to apply a five-finger discount to a bottle of milk and some twinkies to feed Sammy gave Dean candy and ruffled his hair while he sat in the sheriff’s office waiting for someone to claim him._

_Then when John finally turned up, bleary-eyed and stinking of cheap whiskey just as he often did after The Night, they ruffled Dean’s hair some more while they rang children’s services and another ‘kind’ adult came to take him and Sammy away from the only home he had left._

_So Dean doesn’t trust adults who are kind. The only adult who has ever been honest with him in the last four years is his father, and he’s not kind. He leaves bruises and harsh words, but he’s always truthful. You know where you are with someone who tells you what’s what and lets you know when you’ve disappointed ‘em, Dean thinks. Far more than you do with the kind ones who just want to keep you quiet while they slowly screw you over._

_So even while ‘you can call me Carrie’ is fussing over them, and tucking them into soft, but itchy blankets, Dean is alert and watchful, waiting for the sting. He doesn’t trust her smiles and kind words._

_She brings them food separately from the general serving to the rest of the passengers on board. Her hair is blonde where it peeks from beneath her beret and in the tight roll of a bun at her nape as she turns away from him and by the time she collects the trays afterwards the hair at her temples has pulled loose slightly. A single curl is breaking free, it curves against her cheek and Dean hears the strains of Hey Jude in his sleepy mind as she sweeps it behind her ear._

_He wakes with a start as the plane jolts. A man’s voice gives a crackled warning about turbulence, which translates into bone-shaking, teeth-rattling shudders and sudden drops, and that is when Dean finally succumbs. Carrie straps herself into the seat next to him and holds his hand, talking to him about her home and her pet dog, Justin and her niece Emma and all the while he tries not to cry._

_Sammy sleeps through it all._

_Dean’s still holding Carrie’s hand when they get off the plane and Sam is transferred into a buggy. At four years old, he is far too big for it really, but he is so sleepy it’s either the pushchair or someone will have to carry him. They walk through the airport gate into the cold night air and she doesn’t even attempt to let go until they meet a gruff bearded man in a baseball cap and a woman with long dark hair and warm dark brown eyes._

_He grips the hand in his a little tighter when he hears Carrie tell them how brave he was on board, and so, so well behaved and polite and then she is bending into his eye line to say goodbye and he blinks back his tears again. She straightens and with a final gentle stroke of his cheek, she is gone. He stares at the strangers with wary eyes. They don’t ruffle his hair or give him candy. The man lifts his sleeping brother easily from the buggy, holding him close and letting Sammy’s head nestle in the crook of his neck._

_“Name’s Ellen,” the woman says. “And this here’s your Uncle Bobby. Let’s get you boys home.”_


	5. You Ain't the Klutz

Dean is lost in thought when Benny returns from the bank, jumping slightly when the cowbell jangles as he enters. When he looks up he sees that his friend looks marginally less troubled than he did before he left. His bulky shoulders are a little squarer, although that might be the two takeaway cups he is carrying.

“Thought I’d treat you to a Viennese,” he says. “To say thanks for holding the fort.”

“Unnecessary. But still gratefully received.” He takes a sip, asking tentatively, “Did it go OK?”

Benny’s inhale and exhale lifts his whole body. “They’ve extended my bridging loan for another six months while I wait for my parent’s place to sell. It’s more than I expected, and it gives me one more season to make a go of it.” He stares out into the darkness. “You mind shutting up out back for me, while I balance the till?”

Dean just nods and heads into the storeroom. By the time he has closed the electronic shutters on the back windows and tidied the racks and shelves, he can hear the steady rattle of the till printer ending. “Are you sure you didn’t misplace the decimal point when you punched this lot through, brother? I know you can be charming, but this is ridiculous.”

“Huh?” Dean says, stooping to pick up the pile of bags he packed up for Castiel to collect.

“You made more this afternoon than I’ve cleared in the last month, cher, you gotta let me give you commission at least.”

“No,” Dean insists, grappling with the bulky bags, “It was a favour, besides most of it was for....”

Benny doesn’t let him finish, grumbling in exasperation. “At least let me pay enough to cover the hostel? I feel bad enough that I can’t let you stay for a week or two while you find a job… can I help you?”

“No I got ‘em,” Dean says, using his foot to hook the door open and wrench it back against the racking as his arms are full. “But you just reminded me, I need to ring ‘em and make sure they held my space open, last thing I need is to end up on a lounger in the rec room because I forgot to check in on…” his voice peters out as he freezes halfway through the door to the actual shop because he realises Benny was not actually talking to him.

He stares past Benny at the figure of a man muffled up in scarf and hat, with fresh snowflakes glistening as they melt in the heat of the shop. It takes him only seconds to recognise the blue eyes, staring back at him, brows knitted into a frown.

Then the door hits him up the ass and he and the carefully packed bags all fly forwards.

Benny is the first to react, snatching the box containing Claire’s carefully selected ski boots from mid-air as they fly past his head towards the till with the same lightning reflexes and powerful efficiency of movement that have made him an icon amongst the boarders and extreme sports fanatics.

Castiel is next swooping to steady Dean’s stumble as his bad knee cracks and gives way. One hand pressing against his shoulder to stay his pitch forward the other catching an outflung wrist.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean snaps, as the bags hit the polished boards and scatter their contents in all directions. His irritation is aimed entirely at himself rather than anyone else, but Castiel still recoils, instantly relinquishing his grip and removing himself from Dean’s personal space, muttering his apologies. And Dean’s arms twitch with the urge to follow after him and draw him back into a hug.

They stare into each other’s eyes and for what seems to be an unbearably long moment no-one says anything. Then Benny sets the boots down on the counter with a subtle thud, his voice slightly high with surprise, “Fucking hell! - Novak?”

Dean breaks the eye contact and stoops to start picking up the bags. “LaFitte,” Cas acknowledges, pulling off his hat and gloves and unravelling his scarf, dropping them to the side so he can help Dean. They bump awkwardly into one another as they both make a grab for the same sweater and Castiel says sorry for the third time in as many minutes.

“Dude, quit with the apologies,” Dean mumbles.

“Yeah,” Benny says, “You ain’t the klutz who threw my stock all over the floor.” His chuckle rumbles through his chest as Dean hands him the soft plum hoodie to fold with a glare.

“Actually, it’s his stuff, erm, well, his daughter’s at any rate, although he paid for it.” Dean swallows to shut himself up and dusts a bit of lint off the long-sleeved thermal he is holding.

“Oh,” is all that Benny says. At least with his vocal cords. The look he gives Dean is a four-volume epic. Perhaps he's not as inscrutable as he thinks he is.


	6. Interlude 2: Time and patience

_He is compliant and well-behaved. He overhears the doctor telling Bobby and Ellen his silence is a sign of underlying trauma and he just needs time and patience. That is what they give him. Feigning that they are unbothered by the disinterested stare he reserves for everything and everyone except Sammy, but he doesn’t miss the looks they exchange when they think he won’t notice._

_In truth, he is preparing himself. There is no point in getting too comfortable in the little bedroom at the end of the corridor. The bright patchwork coverlet may be soft and smell of flowers and fresh air, but it is only borrowed. The books on the bookshelf are for whichever children may come in next. The clothes in the drawers won’t leave with him when they move him on. Whether that’s because John comes to fetch him or it’s time to move to yet another foster home._

_So he bides his time and keeps his and Sam’s few meagre belongings stowed in his backpack. He takes it everywhere, shopping, school, the Doctor’s office. He’s not going to make the mistake of leaving anything in a room that is only his while he is in it. He’s already lost his angel that way. Sitting on the shelf beside his bed, in the comfortable suburban home of Pastor Jim and his wife, chipped and battered, but undeniably his when he left her sitting there before he climbed into the Pastor’s station wagon and skipped into class._

_John came to collect him from school during third period, hurrying him into Baby and buckling him in next to Sammy in the back seat. They drove through light and dark, headlights and air horns rousing him every so often, until he woke cold and hungry, with John startling awake on the front bench. A nightstick cracking sharp against the side window behind his head. The cop was only giving John a friendly warning about his choice of truck stop, suggesting a motel just down the freeway as an alternative sleeping spot._

_By pure coincidence, it was the same police officer who responded to the manager's call about two abandoned children at her motel. Recognising them instantly as the sons of the man sitting in the pen for DUI._

_So Dean keeps his own counsel, keeps his nose clean and waits. At some point, John will find them and at that point either he will try to take them again or the authorities will move them so he can’t._

_He doesn’t comment when Bobby takes a right hand turn out of the schoolyard. He stays silent when he notices that they are going the wrong way for both the mall and the Doctor's office. He keeps his face impassive as they head away from town, indifferent as the distant mountains cease to be a picture postcard presence on the horizon and loom large ahead of them. He doesn’t even react an hour later, when Bobby sets a heavy hand on his shoulder, tells him to be good and then drives away, leaving him standing in the snow with a gaggle of kids around his own age._


	7. My New Secret Weapon

Dean knows that he and Cas live in very different worlds, but he doesn’t think he has ever been quite so acutely aware of it as he is when he climbs into the Range Rover. It’s not as though it is ostentatious or overtly opulent, but everything about it screams luxury marque, from the exquisitely upholstered finish of the leather seats (heated, of course) to the discreet, sleekly designed dash and all mod cons built in electronics and instrumentation. Even the sound it makes as the door closes is the perfect balance of unobtrusive quietness and reassuring clunk.

He thinks of his Baby, the only thing his father had to leave his two sons when he finally succumbed to alcoholism and depression, now sitting in the garage at Bobby’s. He has lovingly restored the ‘67 Chevy Impala and she is a gleaming classic, but monetarily she is a minnow compared to this whale of first world engineering. And yet, Cas seems to scarcely notice, carelessly dropping the rear window after stowing Claire’s purchases and Dean’s kit into the capacious trunk.

Cas climbs in beside him and starts the engine, fiddling with the temperature controls. Dean shifts as he feels the last remaining similarity with his Baby, ie: the biting cold of the leather seats under his butt and thighs instantly switch to pleasant warmth.

The silence hangs heavy and awkward between them until they risk a glance at one another at the exact same moment. The spell breaks and they both start to laugh at just how ridiculous it is.

“So were the hotels all full,” Cas begins eventually, “or are you just intent on reliving our greatest hits?”

“Huh?”

“The hostel. Benny offered to pay for the hostel… Oh…” Blue eyes widen with realisation. “You know. I have more than enough room in the cabin. You’d be welcome to stay.”

Great now Cas thinks he is a charity case. “No, Cas. It’s fine. I’m planning on picking up some work coaching. Staying at the hostel is perfect for that. Being available at source and all that.”

Cas doesn’t look entirely convinced but if it occurs to him that the last people who either want or can afford private lessons are the mixed bag of students, backpackers and assorted ski bums who make up any ski hostel’s usual customers he doesn’t comment. “Let’s drop your stuff off and then call in at the chalet and drop this stuff off for Claire. Perhaps if you ask her, she’ll come with us for dinner.”

“Dinner? I thought we were just going for a chocolate to catch up,” Dean protests.

“We were, but that’s before I realised you were my new secret weapon. Unlike me, Claire actually seems to genuinely like you.”

It’s clearly an attempt for levity, but Dean sees straight through it. Cas looks weary suddenly and Dean can’t help but feel for him. “What’s not to like,” he says, giving Cas his smirkiest smirk.

Cas sighs heavily and rubs his hand over his face and Dean hears the stress beneath his friend’s stoicism. “Perhaps it’s just that she hates me so much that the merest hint of tolerance looks like deep affection.”

“She’ll come round, Cas. She will. I take it she had no idea about your ‘arrangement’ with Meg.”

“No, and I would have given anything for her to never have found out. I had no choice. I still don’t know who leaked it to the court. It’s not like it could have been part of the Master’s dirty tricks. They must have realised it would backfire on them if they did. Regardless of the way they tried to make it all seem so sordid, destroying what was left of my reputation can’t have been worth losing Claire.”

The fall of his hand onto his friend's lower arm had been so instinctual, he didn’t even realise he had done it until just this moment when he becomes awkward about removing it.


	8. Interlude 3: Do Zavtra, Winchester

_“Winchester! First call.” He’d already vomited on his way to the start gate. Twice. But the shout of his name from the marshall has the bile rising once again._

_Coach has been telling him for months that he’s ready. He takes a deep breath and shakes the tension out of his wrists and knees. Bobby is somewhere down near the finish waiting for him to finish his first-ever competitive run for his country and Ellen has promised to let Sammy and Jo stay up to watch. He pulls the covers off his skis and tightens the straps on his boots. He can do this._

_He hears the count as the competitor two ahead of him, a sturdy Swiss boy with cheeks as red as his uniform rocks back and forth, ready to fling himself through the gate and onto the course. Dean listens to the steady crescendo of the cowbells on the Norwegian slopes, as the crowd gets behind the competitors. Off to one side, he sees the grey geometric pattern, with lightning graphic slashes of red and blue that denote the uniform of the Russian team. He’s seen them at the resort hotel. The athletes seem to have escorts everywhere they go. Their head coach is a bullish grey-haired man, his face an unhealthy purple and red. He gestures wildly at his athlete, who stands dark head bowed, cheeks pinking, maybe with the cold, more likely not. Whatshisname? Kovach? Something like that. The colour seems to be spreading down his neck to the high line of the polo he is wearing under his ski suit._

_“Novak! Gate!” The dark-haired boy straightens and looks over his shoulder at the marshall, checking in with a languid wave of his wrist. He catches Dean watching him as he turns back and must see the sympathy on his face. For a second hi_ _s expression set stern and stony, softens slightly. Then his blue eyes widen as the coach grabs the front of his suit and shakes it to get his attention. If that’s a Russian pep talk, Dean is really glad he’s representing the good ole USA. Coach is tough, but there’s no way he’d be tearing Dean a new one like that. Especially not in public. Before his run. Hell, even after yesterday’s fiasco, he’d overheard the man blaming the lingering effect of the sedatives they had to resort to for the flight over when he talked to the higher-ups about Dean’s ‘mishap’. Without raising his head, Novak pulls himself free of the man’s bunched fists, turns and calmly puts on his helmet and tightens the straps. His eyes are hidden by his reflective goggles as he walks past Dean, kicking his boots into his skis and sliding lithe and graceful into position behind the gate._

_The tissot begins it’s cou_ _ntdown, beep, beep, beep, beep, beeeeeep and he is away between the posts. It’s an absolute flier of a start._

_Dean watches his run on the monitor in the marshall’s tent. Novak is an amazing skier. Dean knows exactly how rough this run is from his practice session, has the bruises to prove how easy it is to get bent out of shape and land in a tangled heap in the safety netting, but the Russian makes it look easy. His head is barely moving, his shape perfect, thighs absorbing the kicks and bucks of the mountain. Dean is so lost in the beautiful flow of his form over the snow he forgets his own nerves for the first time all day._

_“Winchester!” The marshall snaps him out of his reverie, “You’re up kid.”_

_As he makes the first turn, he’s convinced he’s gonna fuck up, just like in practice yesterday. He’s way too tense, he knows. Not making the best of his qualification run at all. He made a good start, not an absolute flier like Novak’s, but good. He can feel it in his bones. Now though, out on the course, his legs aren’t absorbing and flexing as they should and he’s working too hard, just to keep his centre where it should be. He’s using his arms too much to keep his balance and he feels every jolt all the way to his bunched jaw. This mountain is unforgiving, made to test the best and he feels like an imposter here, no matter what Coach says._

_He takes air over the first jump and lands a little awkwardly, but manages to drag his skis back in line under him, wasting precious breath to mutter scorn at himself. “Pull it together.”_

_By the time he rounds the final corner, and hurtles down the finish straight towards the red barrier cushions, slashing the white of the countryside like a wound, he’s exhausted, fighting to maintain his form and speed. The noise of the crowd, muted by the whistling of the wind over his helmet dances up the slope and he concentrates on staying upright and getting himself over the line. He’s determined to finish, even if he doesn’t qualify for tomorrow’s competition._

_He goes over the line with one ski already lifting and instead of a smooth deceleration and poised twist to finish he loses control and lands heavily just shy of the barrier, mercifully detached from his errant ski by the safety clips so that it’s only his pride and existing bruises from yesterday bearing the brunt of the awkward fall and not his ankle._

_It’s not unheard of for a competitor to end up on their ass at the bottom even after a successful run, especially in the junior levels, so the ripple of laughter through the crowd is good-natured enough. Dean is using his stick to free his foot from his remaining ski, determined to get up. When he sees DNQ next to his name on the big screen he at least wants to do it on his feet._

_A black-gloved hand appears in his periphery and he looks up, expecting to see one of the marshalls, instead he meets brilliant sparkling blue. The Russian is gazing down at him, one eyebrow arching in question. He grabs at the proffered hand, too stunned to return the soft amused smile that brightens Novak’s face._

_The noise from the crowd pulls him round and he stares up at the screen, just in time to watch the replay of the last few moments of his run, he can’t help but wince as he watches himself tumble. The winter air is spiky in his throat as he drags it into his lungs and he feels the sting of it in his nose, so he blames that for the tears he wipes on his sleeve when he sees his time. It might not have been pretty, but his time is good. He turns back from the big screen, a slow grin of realisation growing on his face. Fingers flex around his palm and he notices that he and Novak are still holding hands._

_The Russian is smiling wider, even as his escort grabs his arm, muttering something and pulling him away. “Do zavtra, Winchester,” he says, as he relinquishes his grip with a final squeeze. He laughs at Dean’s puzzlement, “Until tomorrow,” his English is heavily accented and Dean isn’t sure whether it’s just Novak’s doubt of his pronunciation or whether it is genuinely a question, but he nods anyway._

_Then Dean is being ushered to the side by the marshalls and into a bone-crushing hug, as Bobby finally fights through the crowd to reach him. The elation that replaces his anticipated disappointment is making him feel lightheaded and he lets out a little whoop of excitement._

_By the end of the qualification session, Dean Winchester USA, a 13-year-old rookie who put on a pair of skis for the first time in his life less than two years ago, is, against all odds, through to the final in 19th place on his International competitive debut._


	9. Hit the Slopes?

Castiel is no sadist, but he’d be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that Claire’s quandary amuses him. She is clearly torn between her urge to punish him further and the desire to spend time with Dean Winchester. Either that or the promise of well-cooked food, rather than the product of his own poor catering skills is too much of a draw.

He doesn’t dare let himself inspect too closely why it pleases him so much that Claire likes Dean, as he watches them good-naturedly bickering over dinner with a steadily growing sense of warmth. It had always hurt him that Meg and Dean could not get along. They were, for many years, his two favourite people in the world and their niggling dislike of one another meant he always had to choose between them because more than ten minutes in each other’s company was at best an exercise in uncomfortable silence, but more often bitter sniping that could quickly become outright vicious.

He watches Dean pretending he hasn’t seen Claire swiftly snatch a fry away from his plate, where only moments before he gently slapped the back of her wrist with the flat of his fingers to prevent her marauding hands.

It appears that Dean’s good-natured, easy-going presence has even enabled a temporary truce between father and daughter, as Dean draws Castiel into their games, pointing over their shoulders at some supposed celebrity and stealing the cream from Castiel’s dessert while both he and Claire are looking out of the window, much to her amusement when they turn back.

They sit for a while after leaving the dinner table, pleasantly full, enjoying the hiss and crackle of the fire in the lounge over coffee (Claire’s loaded with enough cream and sugar to drown out the bitterness, despite her declaration that she’s “not a kid, anymore, Castiel”.) He notes with relief that she has dropped the ‘hell’ from his name for this evening at least. Dean is amusing Claire with tall tales from their teenage lives on the circuit. All he has to do is murmur along and lazily interject.

All too soon the ever polite staff are subtly signalling that the evening is at a close and he is helping Claire into her coat before it occurs to either of them that she would normally at this point be snatching it from his hands and snapping at him.

They stare at each other awkwardly and he drops his hands away quickly, but she graces him with a quick smile and muttered thanks. He could cry. Tonight is the first sign of the old Claire he has seen in months.

Dean pushes open the door and the semi chill of the vestibule swirls around them. He winks at Castiel as Claire ducks under his arm. Once they clear the second outer door, the night air carries the sharp sting of ice, without the comforting undertone of snow-filled cloud cover. It’s only a short walk but the warmth of the Rover’s seats is still welcome. Claire is yawning as she settles in the back. “I’m beat,” she says, before politely asking if Castiel can drop her off first before he heads up the pass to the hostel to take Dean back.

Cas hesitates, but Dean replies smoothly, “Sure thing, Clairebear.” Her expected indignant reaction is replaced with murmured thanks and Castiel begins to wonder whether he is dreaming.

The gentle teasing conversation between the two continues all the way back to the cabin. The outside lights flare up as they turn up the final sweep and Claire hops out of the back rolling her eyes at Dean’s offer to walk her inside. “I’m sixteen, not six,” she says, this time with a smile and laughter in her voice.

“All right, kiddo, it’s still past your bedtime isn’t it?” he shouts after her as she climbs up the steps to the veranda.

“Whatever you say, old man. You best go get some shut-eye. Won’t you need to get up at dawn to get your ancient muscles loosened up enough before we hit the slopes tomorrow?” She slams the front door shut before he can reply.

Dean chuckles and Castiel stares at him. “Hit the slopes?” he says stupidly.

“Yeah, _we_ …” Dean waggles his hand lazily back and forth between them and the cabin, “... are all going together tomorrow.”

“We? As in the three of us?”

Dean turns to look at him directly, and only once their eyes lock, does he say, “Hells yes.”

Castiel doesn’t know what to say. He feels far too many things at once for anything sensible to come out if he tries, so he just stares back. Not for the first time he’s struck by just how beautiful Dean’s eyes are. He’s missed them, missed this… missed him. It’s about to burst out of him when Dean breaks the moment.

“Besides, how else am I gonna keep up with her. Need another old crock dragging up the rear so I have an excuse to get her to slow down. Now drive me home Peril, so this Cowboy can get his beauty sleep.”

"The Man from Uncle, really Dean?"


	10. Interlude 4: I'm a skier not a skater.

_The start of training after the Summer break is always tough, but this year is something else. He’s fit and lean and naturally athletic, but this is his last season as a U18 junior so he’s doing his fitness drills and conditioning with the U21 as part of the transition. Dean winces as he tries to get his aching body and wayward muscles to cooperate and does a set of decidedly wobbly lunges. He’s still sore and stiff from yesterday’s sessions, waking late and racing to get clean before the showers turned from lukewarm to ice-cold has done little to help. He missed breakfast and was still late to the warm-up. He knows the senior coach didn’t miss that, despite his lack of comment. Turner isn’t a skier, his background is military and then college football and it shows. But Mike Masters seems to love him and if the string of race wins and Gold Medals the rising star of US skiing is achieving is anything to go by, he gets results. They are already talking about promoting him to the US Masters squad a full year before he's due, at the age of 20._

_Mike is in the middle of the training field dotted with outdoor gym equipment. Hanging from a pull-up bar. As Dean watches he raises his whole body, without tremor or jerk until he is holding his chin effortlessly over the bar. His body is in perfect stasis. Hair immaculate as always, the only sign of the intense strength it takes to maintain his perfect position is the light sheen of sweat lying on heavily tanned skin. In truth, he carries a little too much muscle for a downhill skier, but damn it looks good on him, Dean thinks idly. He pushes the thought down deep, I am a skier, not a skater, he tells himself firmly._

_“Winchester!” Dean starts at the sudden shout of his name. “This ain’t a spectator session, boy. Maybe a few laps will get those bow legs shifting your ass and your goddamn head back in the game. GO!”_

_Blushing heavily, Dean ducks his head and sets off at a steady jog to the dirt track around the field._


	11. Hot Chocolate with the Works

They agree to meet at the ski lift at just after 8 and joking aside, Dean sleeps through his alarm three times, before the couple on the other side of the paper-thin wall he shares with the room next door are banging on his door, presumably outraged by the burst of 80's rock at the ungodly hour of 7 am. He staggers from the bed and answers it before he properly wakes. So stands, confused and blinking at them: A sandy-haired, bare-chested lad and a girl with serious bedhead and the panda eyes of yesterday’s eye make-up. Ollie and Grace’s grumpy looks (he knows their names courtesy of those paper-thin walls and their energetic activities of the night before) quickly melt into sniggering. And he slams the door with a swift apology once he follows their downward glances and realises what he is barely wearing. He likes the feel of satin dammit, and he bought them in a men’s store, thank you very much. They are most definitely shorts, despite the snug fit.

-

The resort is still a little quiet, it won’t really hit its full stride until the weekend, but the hubbub of the breakfast lounge carries the anticipation and excitement of a day’s skiing. He whistles as he wanders down the track from hostel to town, well-worn skis snug in their carry over his shoulder and newly minted lift pass slung around his neck.

He spots the black roof adorned with ski rack turning into the underground lot as he climbs the last slope towards the chair and speeds up a little, aiming to be there first, so he has bragging rights over the blonde-haired minx. His moment of triumph is short-lived. She is standing in her skis to the side of the barrier and the exaggerated way she looks at her watch before ‘noticing’ him is clear enough evidence that she has seen him. Not to mention the fact that she is still slightly out of breath from running up here to beat him. Oh yes, the game is on, madam, the game is on.

“Morning, Clairebear,” he says, just to be irritating. Dropping his kit bag and changing boots. “Saw Cas parking up. Ah, speak of the devil! Hey Cas.”

“Hello Dean,” he says, idly waving a hand to attract the attention of one of the kids who works for tips, taking people’s belongings to the lockers for them.

Claire zips up her kit bag and is fastening the chest clips of her small backpack still carrying her disinterested air of triumph as Dean moves towards the chair lift, he winks over his shoulder at Cas, before he says, “Might wanna finish fastening your boots, kiddo, wouldn’t wanna lose your skis halfway up.”

Claire gasps and immediately stoops to check her perfectly well-fastened boots before levelling Dean with a grade two stink eye and the sort of bitch face he normally only gets when teasing Sam, while Cas turns his head so she can't see him laughing.

-

The first day on the slopes drifts quickly and easily into a second and a third and before Dean is really aware of the time they are in their second week at the resort and have dropped into a routine of skiing all morning and well into the afternoon, breaking only briefly to refuel on granola bars or hot soup.

Each day he and Claire continue their good-natured battle of wits. She is a natural and fluid skier as is to be expected considering her genes, but she does lack finesse. There is nothing heavily schooled or trained about her style, but she seems to be enjoying herself, nonetheless and Dean feels a little envious. He is grateful for the discipline and sense of purpose his competitive years gave him, but there is something to be said about skiing for the sheer joy of it, rather than chasing a few microseconds advantage over competitors.

They try to stay on the quieter slopes or go off-piste. Cas fully helmeted and goggled is only really recognisable to the expert eye, however, the minute he removes his headgear, he is far too distinctive and famous to go unnoticed. He gives his time graciously and generously, posing for selfies and photographs, but it’s just easier to stay away from the steadily building crowds.

He is just taking a perch overlooking the mountain at one of the apres-ski chalets while they wait for Cas to come back from the counter with three hot choc with the works when his phone vibrates in his pocket. Claire dumps her bag and excuses herself, heading in the direction of the restrooms.

“Hey Cher, you spare me a moment?”

“Wouldna answered if I couldn’t, Benny. Was gonna call in tomorrow anyway. You think I wasn’t gonna notice that chunk of money you sneaked onto my credit card. I told you, it was a favour…”

“You earned it fair and square, brother. Besides. I kinda have a favour to ask myself. I know you’re probably all booked up already and if you say no, honestly, it won’t matter, but…”

“I ain’t a mind reader, what are you tryna ask?” Dean mouths his thanks to Cas as he puts the mugs down on the table. He mimes whether he should give Dean some privacy, but Dean waves him off and points at a stool.

“OK, I have a problem, I’ve got three full classes of beginners lessons booked up, and Eli’s decided his ankle looked better the other way round, so now I only got two coaches and I was already down to five helpers, instead of six… I know it’s way below your pay grade teaching nursery slopes, but I’m in a real fix...”

Dean hums, his funds are diminishing rapidly. Another week without working and he will have to resort to paying the minimum on his credit card balance at the end of the month, rather than clearing it as he originally planned. And that is despite the commission from his afternoon working in the Ski Store, that Benny has sneakily transferred onto it. And if he’s honest with himself he’s not exactly been proactive about seeking bookings. He did put a few flyers up, well OK, two. All right, all right. One. But it is on a notice board in the lobby. Admittedly not the one by the desk that gets the most attention from new arrivals, or the one between the lift and the restaurant where people read notices out of sheer boredom while they queue. It’s not like he's sabotaging himself because he’s having too much fun every day… He glances up a little guiltily at the source of his distraction. Cas is turned away looking out across the snow as he shucks out of his ski-jacket, so Dean is free to let his gaze linger on the small line of tanned skin between the collar of his thermal undershirt and the row of dark curls at his nape.

Benny is still talking, uncharacteristically carrying the one-sided conversation. “I know the fee is nowhere near as much as your one to one sessions and family coaching, but I can maybe bump it up a bit… especially as I can only let you have one aide.”

Aware that he is not paying his friend proper attention and that the guaranteed income is exactly what he needs at the moment, Dean cuts him off, “As it happens I do have some time to spare…”

With a flash of brilliant blue in the bright sunshine, Cas’ attention snaps back. Fully flustered at being caught staring, Dean’s mouth runs away with him and he hears himself blurt out. “Call me later with the deets, sweetheart, you know I can never refuse you anything.”

It’s far from a normal sign off to Benny, highlighted by the stunned pause and loud guffaw from the other end as he disconnects the call. Seeking to cover his embarrassment and hide the blush rising up his neck and threatening to overrun into his cheeks, he completely forgets himself and takes a massive gulp of chocolate that is way too hot, simultaneously scalding his mouth and throat, choking and coughing most of it over the table, himself and Cas.


	12. Interlude 5: Pretty American Boy

_The worst thing about the ski season is how little he sees Sammy. For the six months from October - March, while technically he spends a fair amount of time at the US training camp no more than a couple of hours drive away from Bobby and Ellen’s sprawling ranch, there’s not much time left once Sammy’s schooling and Dean’s training schedules are taken into account. He feels homesick almost constantly and spends most of his allowance on international calls._

_The second worst thing about the ski season is how much time he spends travelling. And with most of that travel either to or around Europe they have to fly everywhere. When it became obvious just how terrified he was Coach started giving him a pill around two hours before the flight and he very often couldn’t remember getting on board and had to be half-carried off the plane._

_So the start of the season always makes him feel a little antsy. Don’t get him wrong: He loves skiing. The thrill of hurtling down the course, the challenge of producing his very best runs when it counts and the euphoria when it all flows just right. There’s nothing quite like it. At least nothing obtainable._

_And that brings him to something that has become his favourite thing about the ski season. Castiel Novak_

_It’s an impossible friendship really. The disapproving Apparatchik_ _chaperones who accompany the athletes of the USSR everywhere they go do not allow for such fraternisation and his own team management certainly don’t encourage or condone it, but ever since his first race when the Russian helped him up from the snow, they have migrated into each other’s orbit at every opportunity._

_It’s nearly impossible to communicate outside of the season, although Castiel somehow always manages to sneak a few letters out, much to Sammy’s amusement. The little shit takes great delight in snatching them away, bouncing up and down on Dean’s bed keeping them out of reach, until the thumping of the headboard against the wall brings Ellen upstairs to investigate and restore order._

_But during events they snatch conversation whenever possible and after his minder drank far too much at a press junket managed to spend most of the continental train journey from Val D’Isere to Narvik together when a strike by French ATC shut the airspace over France, much to Dean’s delight on both counts._

_This year the opening event is in Tignes. They arrived in France a week earlier, to ‘acclimatise’ and Dean is now no longer officially a U18 junior. The US number two has managed to fall during practice and broken his leg. Mike Masters is elevated to the Masters level and as the next placed college boy for the U21 squad has managed to get himself arrested and charged with possession a mere week before flying out, Dean, with times far better than most of the other potential replacements and already part of the training team, finds himself officially representing the US in the U21’s._

_At first, he was happy he isn’t allowed to sleep in the dorms anymore, but five nights of trying to sleep through his room mate’s snoring and impressive nocturnal flatulence have worn the gloss off his new ‘privilege’. Although he's already decided he likes Benny Lafitte, despite what the rest of team say about him and his 'reckless' streak. He's a jumper for fuck's sake. Dean can't think of a more apt description of the aptitude needed to throw yourself off a giant ramp at sixty miles an hour with only skis and compacted snow to land on._

_They check in to a comfortable hotel close to the training centre, but still only a short walk from the centre of town and when Dean casually asks if he can have the bed by the window, his only answer is a grunt as the far too burly ski-jumper drops onto the bed nearest the door. They’re in room 101, and the view from the window when he throws the heavy drapes back is the rather uninspiring sight of the sidewall of the building next door and a series of dumpsters, so perhaps it’s not much of a sacrifice._

_He makes his excuses straight after lunch and goes exploring. Another perk of his new adult status is the option to go wherever he likes on his own, so long as he’s back for his meals and any meetings or training sessions. He finds himself wandering through the tourist shops selling cheap knick-knacks and finds a natty little compass keyring that he knows Sammy will love and loathe in equal measure._

_He heads back to the hotel before the sky gets too dark, not wishing to push his luck with his curfew on his first attempt. He is just turning the corner when a large bus with blacked-out windows and the Cyrillic script that denotes it holds at least some of the Russian team passes along the street. His heart gives a little leap and he watches it turn along a side street and head up the hill out of town._

_-_

_He manages, and he’s not quite sure how, to finish an impressive 8th. He is in medal contention after his own run, sitting in second place for the dozen or so athletes who follow after him, much to everyone’s shock, including his own. As per the cruel custom he has to stand at the finish, so the media can watch his reaction as other athletes try to beat his time. He is acutely aware of his own body language as he watches Novak’s run and tries not to show his elation as Castiel posts an impressive 15 seconds faster than his own time, just 5/100ths of a second of behind the athlete in 1st._

_He steps down onto the 3rd place podium, as Castiel takes his place physically as well as competitively. Shoving his goggles into his helmet, still breathless from his run, pink-cheeked and hair tousled, he catches Dean’s eye and mutters any apology before he turns back to salute the camera._

_He doesn’t get to enjoy standing by his friend for long, as four out of the next five athletes post in the fifteen seconds that separate their times, but Dean stays till the end, allegedly cheering the third-place US athlete, but secretly exultant for Cas._

_-_

_He wakes in the middle of the night and rolls over with a quiet moan as the solid mattress presses into one especially large bruise on his right hip from a trip during training. He glances at the hotel clock, it’s bright red digits tell him it’s just after two. Then, he hears first one tap at the window, then another and realises that it must be what woke him in the first place. He pushes back the heavy down duvet favoured in European hotels and peers out into the moonlit street, letting out a totally manly squeal, he falls on his ass on the carpet, as a face looms mere inches from his own._

_He peers nervously over his bedding at his roommate, but he appears to still be sound asleep. Hardly surprising he snores like a 747 at takeoff, the sound of Novak’s delicate tapping through the triple glazed window and his own attempt are minuscule by comparison. He fiddles with the catches and manages to unhook the window, it only opens about 8 inches, but that it appears is enough, with a shimmy and subtle thump Castiel lands on the carpet beside him. They blink at one another in the moonlight and Dean suppresses a giggle._

_“What the hell are you doing here, Cas?” he whispers._

_“They fly whole team back first thing tomorrow,” he answers softly, “I didn’t want to miss chance to say goodbye.”_

_Dean blinks, there are still events to run, not to mention Castiel’s own medal ceremony._

_“It seems Russian team captain has been … what is word… he is disqualified. The government say it is… not correct.”_

_“They think he’s been framed,” Dean says catching on and forgetting to whisper. The snoring ceases momentarily and he drops his voice. “A stitch-up.”_

_“Yes,” Castiel says nodding, “Like in A-Team. A stitch-up.”_

_“You watch the A-team, Cas?” Dean asks in wonder._

_Cas nods. “It is favourite show of fat apparatchik. Everywhere we go. I watch A-team in French, German, Italian and Russian.” He counts the languages off on his strong elegant fingers and his teeth gleam in the moonlight streaming through the window. His eyes are still blue, albeit a very muted hue, despite being leached of colour by the silver of the night, the plump cushion of his lips look faintly lilac. And Dean wonders what they would feel like pressed against his own._

_He pushes himself back against the bed, away from temptation. “What about your medal, Cas?”_

_Cas shrugs. “It is not of import. It is only silver.”_

_“Only silver!” Dean squeaks indignantly, forgetting the need to be quiet yet again. “You earned that medal, Cas. Your run was amazing and you were only like 3 or 4 one-hundredths off.”_

_Castiel shrugs again and stares at a spot on the carpet just under the window. “Five," he corrects. "Sadly, is not good enough,” he says a little too quietly._

_Dean remembers all the times he has seen Cas being balled out by his coaches, the rough way they grab his face or pull his arm. Turner and Crowley are tough, but ultimately fair and win or lose they go through each performance looking for tweaks and improvements. His own 8th place was met with a quiet “Not bad Winchester.”_

_“You did better than expected,” Castiel says. “I did not do as well as they wanted.”_

_“How do you do that Cas?” Dean asks and when Castiel tilts his head in question, he clarifies, “How do you answer as if you hear what I’m thinking?”_

_He shrugs again, and then his mouth quirks sideways “Perhaps, it is because I watch Face in every language. He, too, is pretty American boy who says much without words.”_


	13. I Ain't A Mind Reader

The sweet scent of hot chocolate drifts up from the counter. Claire abandoned him almost instantly, dumping her bag on the table Dean has managed to snag, she darted towards the restrooms. Cas nods his thanks to the server, taps his phone to the pay sensor, and drops it back into an inner pocket so he has his hands free to wrangle the three steaming mugs.

Dean has his own phone pressed to his ear as Castiel sets the drinks carefully down on the table. He makes to walk away to give him privacy, but Dean just waves him towards his stool as he says, “I ain’t a mind reader, what are you tryna ask?” Dean listens to the response making appropriate humming noises.

The last few days have been an unanticipated boon for Cas. He was expecting to spend these next few weeks as he has spent the last few months, negotiating sensitivities as carefully as a parent walking barefoot over lego bricks - in the dark. Instead, the last few days been fun, real fun. Claire is still not easy with him and he’s aware that their relationship is a precious fragile seedling, as likely to founder from over nurturing as it is from neglect or carelessness, but Dean is allowing them to spend time together without being alone together. A surge of gratitude overwhelms Castiel. He is so lucky to have this man’s friendship.

The sunlight glints off Dean’s hair, showing up the little hints of blonde that remain amongst the brown relics of his youth and the contrast between light and shadow is showing off the handsome planes of his face. He is smiling into the phone and his green eyes, always spectacular as far as Cas is concerned, are sparkling and luminous where the light catches them. Aware his thoughts are turning into a trashy romance novel, he swallows and turns away to look across the mountain vista, certain that if Dean sees his face it will be _him_ who is an open book for once.

“As it happens I do have some time to spare…”

The words break through his thoughts and he snaps his head back round. He can’t help the little surge of jealousy and feels guilty instantly. Dean deserves the world. He’s been generous with his time as it is and if he has a better offer, Castiel has no right to stop him. No matter how much he may want to. Their gazes lock and Castiel isn’t sure what his friend will read on his face, but he can’t break eye contact: he just can’t. Dean is blushing and a little breathless as he blurts out, “Call me later with the deets, sweetheart, you know I can never refuse you anything.”

Oh fuck. He’s arranging a date and now Castiel is staring at him like a complete fool. He’s fortunate that Claire returns to save him. Pouncing on the hot chocolate like a vulture on a five-day-old carcass. Just as Dean grabs his own mug and gulps it down. Cas winces at the look of pained confusion that crosses Dean’s features, it must still be scalding hot. Moments later, he knows. In fact. It is. He knows this because he is wearing quite a lot of it.


	14. Interlude 6: It's good to have a home.

_Dean flew back in yesterday, the next meet is in Whistler so he has a whole week at home mid-season. When he eventually sleeps off the stupor from the tranqs and staggers downstairs it is already mid-morning. Bobby and Sammy are sitting at the dining table, surrounded by the detritus of newspapers and sports magazines. Bobby keeps a scrapbook of Dean’s greatest hits. He uses Sam as a cover for his activities, claiming it is a way of helping the younger Winchester cope with his older brother’s absence. But everyone in the Singer-Winchester household knows the truth of it._

_“You boys better not be getting glue on my second-best table cloth,” Ellen calls from the kitchen. Dean rushes to grab the oversized basket of clean laundry she has balanced on her hip._

_“You didn’t have to do that,” he says as he sets the basket down and begins folding._

_“Well, well. Wonders will never cease. You two see this,” she says. “This is what truly helpful looks like. No need to ask, no whining, just taking care of himself like a proper adult.” She looks at Dean appraisingly, particularly at the pair of sweats he grabbed out of the drawer in his room. The ‘ankles’ are sitting somewhere mid-calf. “I swear kiddo if you get much taller, we’re gonna have to get the lintels raised.”_

_“Nah,” Sammy says, tongue between his teeth as he concentrates on cutting round a picture of Dean in Sports Illustrated. “Look see. That’s why he has bow legs, he’s too lazy to duck.”_

_Dean grins with satisfaction at the disgruntled ‘hey!’ as the balled-up socks he threw hit their target._

_“Looks like we need a trip to the store,” Ellen muses, before adding, “again.” She waves at the laundry “How much of this stuff you brought home still fits you?”_

_“All of it,” Dean says with a grin. “Crowley has replaced my kit three times this season and says I grow anymore the federation are gonna demand he picks someone else.”_

_“Maybe I best make a fruit salad for dessert and not put that apple pie JoBeth and Sam spent all day yesterday making in the stove then,” Ellen taps his cheek affectionately when he gives her a look of mock horror. “It’s good to have you home, sweetheart.”_

_It's good to have a home, Dean thinks. He wonders how Castiel is and whether the cooks at the Russian academy make whatever the Russian equivalent of apple pie is._

_-_

_He yawns his way through dinner, letting the hubbub of conversation flow over him. Jo and Sammy are gossiping about school and he half listens. Keeping up, just, with the who’s who of their lives. Bobby and Ellen interject occasionally, usually to admonish one or the other when they feel it necessary to tone down their bickering._

_He starts to help clear the table after refusing a third helping of pie and Ellen takes the dishes from his hands and sets them back on the table. And thus, at just after seven in the evening, just a few weeks shy of his 18th birthday and 6’ 1’’ in his stocking feet, Dean Winchester is unceremoniously shooed up to bed, while Jo and Sam are still noisily fighting over who washes and who dries._

_He opens the door to his attic bedroom and without turning on the lights, allows muscle memory to guide him to his bed. The house is always warm, the powerful wood burner in the cellar cranking heat throughout, so he drops face down on top of the coverlet without undressing._

_Instead of the soft cotton cover on his featherdown pillow, his cheek hits something crispy and scratchy. He simultaneously reaches for his bedside light and reaches a hand under his face. He sits up, blinking at the manilla envelope in puzzlement, brushing a hand through his hair and dislodging a fluttering post-it note._

_THOUGHT YOU MIGHT LIKE THESE, Sam’s handwriting, more joined-up these days, but still unmistakable._

_He opens the envelope and lets the contents fall onto his bed, exhaustion momentarily forgotten. Folded paper held with paperclips keeps different categories together. Results in one pile. Photos in another. And then a single carefully folded magazine page. An advert for ski wax on the outside. He unfolds it and sees the half-page image. A skier taking air, skis parallel and poles tucked, against the brilliant blue of the sky._

_The mouth is set in determined concentration above a dimpled chin, the angle showing off a strong jawline, sun glinting off the tinted goggles that Dean knows hide eyes so blue they would shame that sky into submission._

_He reads the photo caption. C Novak. Wengen._

_**The Next Red Peril?** wincing at the blatant propaganda of the headline, Dean reads on._

_**The recent controversy surrounding the disqualification of Russian team captain, Nik Belov has done little to dampen the buzz around the pretender to his throne not so well hidden behind the iron curtain.** _

**_The talented young Russian junior (pictured above as he raced to victory in Switzerland) has set a blistering pace in both downhill and slalom all season. Not 19 for another six months he is rarely off the podium in the two individual events and a sure thing in the combined. He makes beating older more experienced skiers look simple and with his easy confidence and focussed approach, he has been long regarded as a triple threat by those in the know. Unlike the suspicions that have always surrounded Belov’s sudden improvement as a junior, there is not a whisper of suggestion that those times are ‘boosted’ by anything other than Novak’s determination to win and pure skill._ **

**_Even this jaded journo has to admit there is something sublime about the youngster’s graceful style on the slopes and whilst it has always seemed likely that he will become a household name in the sport, the outcome of the war of words between the Russian Federation and the FIS about the validity of Belov’s testing and his future in skiing could see Novak promoted to the masters roster well ahead of schedule. Either way, he is certainly one to watch._ **

_The rest of the article is mostly about Belov and his fall from grace and speculation about how widespread the use of drugs in the sport is. Dean has heard it all before, he has a huge long list of things he can’t take, drink or even in some cases eat because of the ever increasingly stringent testing, both in and out of season. Who knew excess consumption of poppy seed loaf could make you test positive for opioids for instance. Thank God there are no stimulants in pie. Then he would have to quit._

_He folds the page so that just the photo is showing, smooths out the creases and using a bit of tack retrieved from the bottom corner of an old poster he sticks it carefully onto the wall beside his bed._

_-_

_He is flying down the slope, the crackle of ice and compacted snow under his skis. The air is crisp and cold needles hit his face as the wind scatters fine powder from the drifts at the sides of the course. The conifers stretching down the mountain, dark green clashing with the bright orange of the safety netting. They look like a line of menacing guards separating the stunning blue of the sky from the startling white of the snow. He laughs, exhilarated. Snatches of sound. Cowbells and cheering crowds of onlookers, all whipped away and past his ears, muted by the rush of the air past his helmet as he cuts through it._

_It is perfect, he is perfect. His whole body tuned to the course. His skis an extension of his limbs. But then the mountain bucks beneath him and his foot is lifting no matter how firmly he tries to push it back and he starts falling, rolling over and over, waiting for the netting to catch him, only this time it doesn’t. Instead, he is endlessly tumbling, white and blue and dark green and orange a swirling kaleidoscope. He tries to follow his training, keep his arms tight to his body, forcing himself to relax as he waiting for the sickening jolt as he stops._

_But it never comes, he is suddenly floating lighter than air. The mountain steadies and falls away beneath him. Someone is hugging him, holding him tight and safe. He tilts his face and feels the heat of the sun, above him framed against the blue of the sky he can see a helmet and goggles. Castiel. Arms wrap firmly around his shoulders, lifting him to safety above the slope._

_He realises he is dreaming about the same time as Castiel lets him go. He looks up as he falls and sees Castiel fighting with faceless men in suits above him in the sky. He reaches out, desperate to help, calling out to his friend, but there is nothing he can do as he crashes into the soft snow and it swallows him up._

_He wakes sweaty and breathing heavily in the darkness of his bedroom. He turns on the light, waiting for the lingering effects of negative emotions from the nightmare to settle along with his heart rate. He turns and stares at the picture of Castiel on his wall and the meaning hits him as hard and unyielding as the mountainsides he routinely crashes into in both training and competition._

_If Castiel is promoted to seniors they will no longer be competing at the same level. Their events will sometimes be on different days, always at different times. The fleeting opportunities they have currently will be even fewer and further between. Friends come and go, even good friends. His early life has taught him that. And it’s not as though he and Castiel are friends in the normal sense of the word. Not like he and Benny, or any of his other friends. He enjoys their company and looks forward to spending time with them, but he doesn’t think about them unprompted nearly all the time._

_Or miss them. Not like he_ misses _Cas. Oh._

 _Or dream about them holding him tight._ Oh.

 _Or think about what it would be like to kiss them._ Well… Crap.

_The world tilts on its axis, his life explodes into a thousand tiny fragments then rebuilds itself like a 3D puzzle only now the parts fit better and suddenly make sense. He stares at the ceiling for as long as it takes for the universe to settle back, then turns his head to look once more at the picture on his wall. With a tiny smile, he rolls back over, turns out his light and goes back to sleep._


	15. The King of Communication

It’s the last day of his first week coaching the KindieKids when Sam rings him just as he is about to go and grab a shower. Just to annoy him, Dean puts him on speaker and takes him to the bathroom with him, making the excuse that there’ll be no hot water left if he waits.

-

“So, Ellen says, if Bobby wants to wear his trucker hat to go watch Hamilton he can sit two rows over because she won’t sit with him. Jo says they spent all of the last day packing and unpacking it from the case until she intervened and hid it.”

Dean shakes the water out of his ears. “I don't know what she’s thinking, Sammy. Bobby without his hat, just ain’t Bobby!”

“Uhuh, that’s what I said until Jo kicked me under the table. It’s been good to see them and show them some of the sights. We missed you, of course, but we’ll see you at Christmas right?”

“I doubt it, Sammy. I only just started picking up work…” he trails off, not wanting to admit he can’t afford a ticket, especially not in the expensive period around Christmas.

“Oh, of course!” Sammy says suddenly sounding excited, “you’re gonna spend it with Cas?”

Dean doesn’t quite know what to say. Cas has been weird with him since their last day on the slopes.

“OK, what happened?” Sam says, and not for the first time Dean curses his brother’s uncanny Deandar. How the hell he knows from a moment’s silence is beyond Dean. He thinks about pretending the call dropped.

“I can hear the shower running still, Dean. Spill.”

“He’s got Claire to worry about and the whole court case thing is only just over and he’s still mourning Meg...”

“Dean, I can’t think of a better time for him to run into you. Did he tell you he didn’t want you around, or are you making 2 and 2 into 97, like usual.”

“I do not…”

“No, of course you don't, for sure, you are the king of communication and you absolutely never jump to the wrong conclusions or let your critically low self-esteem affect your perception of events…”

“Whoa, there Dr Phil. I don’t remember agreeing to start therapy.”

“Am I wrong?” Sam asks flatly.

“OK. No, He didn’t say so, but he did go quiet on me last Friday. Withdrawn. At first, I thought he was probably just a bit pissed with me about the chocolate, but…”

“What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Dean whines.

“Hm,” is all the noise Sammy makes.

Dean sighs, “I might have kinda spat hot chocolate all over him, but it was on accident.”

He can hear the laughter in Sam’s voice. “Dude, Cas knows how fucking clumsy you are, he wouldn’t hold that against you. Maybe he was just tired or had a headache. Did you ask whether he wanted to stop seeing you?”

“No, and we haven’t stopped seeing each other, because we weren’t ‘seeing’ each other, we were just skiing together with Claire and now we’re not, because he is busy and I have to earn my keep coaching.”

“So, when I spoke to you last Friday morning you sounded like the cat that got the cream and this week you sound like a kicked puppy and the only difference is that you are not seeing Cas as much, despite not ‘seeing’ Cas in the first place?”

“No, I… ahhhhhh!”

He absolutely does not squeal like a terrified frog when the showers suddenly go cold.

-

Dean is beat. He just spent the last twenty minutes shuffling on his knees helping his little troopers remove their skis and fasten their normal footwear. It’s the end of the week and for some of them it’s their last day, so he has been hugged and kissed and even had to wipe away a few tears as the parents came to collect their kids.

He’s absent-mindedly rubbing the ache in his knee when he feels a familiar tug at his sleeve. He turns with a smile, “Sup Lucas? D’you forget something bud?” he says. The little boy has not said a word all week, even to the other children, his mother had said he wouldn’t. There’s trauma there somewhere. It’s clear from her careful ‘goodbye, be good’ speech that they are both recovering from something, but it’s not Dean’s place to pry. He just makes sure he’s gentle and soft and doesn’t expect too much.

At the little passing out display for parents today, Lucas showed off his skills proudly and his mother tearfully laughed and clapped as he collected the graduation bandanna Benny provides for all the kids at the end of their lessons.

Now Lucas is back, looking at Dean solemnly. He pulls a bright crayon drawing from behind his back and hands it shyly to Dean. It is of the two of them on their skis. Complete with yellow sun and floating blue sky above the mountain. He thanks Lucas with equal solemnity and watches him run outside. His mother is standing out at the roadside, she smiles at Dean and nods quiet thanks and then they are gone. The whole thing has stirred up a lot of memories and it all leaves Dean wondering if he could have done more.

He shrugs it off when someone hands him a message from Benny. His friend had rung the centre because he couldn’t get Dean on his cell. Which is no surprise. It’s sitting on the bedside table in his room, he managed to trip over something on his way back to bed after a trip to the bathroom last night and ran it flat talking to Sam in the shower. He’s left it on charge all day. It wasn’t worth leaving it at the centre, far too many people with access and potentially sticky fingers.

Dean decides he might as well take all the paperwork and registers down to save everyone else the trip and arrives just as Benny is balancing his till, so dumps the paperwork in the little office outback and helps him close the store.

“Cher, I have something else I wanna ask you… I was gonna do it over the phone, but… well...unlike some people, I can’t afford The Lodge, but if you wanna come back to mine I think I managed to hide a couple of decent steaks under the veg box, we could have a few beers and discuss my little proposal. You can leave your skis and kit here overnight, save lugging it up the hill.”

-

He leaves Benny’s place a little after 11, there’s a snowstorm brewing, Dean can tell anyway, even without the aid of the weather warnings that set everyone else's phones pinging. The air smells of snow, crisp and absent of every other odour. Because he's so tired, or so he tells himself, the few beers hit him harder than a quart of whisky on an empty stomach by the time he’s hiked up the hill in the rarefied air. It’s just his luck that the elevator is out of service and he hauls himself up the stairs to his third-floor room.

He bumps into the young British woman from the next door room as she makes her way from the communal showers. She takes in his pink cheeks and slight wobble. “Good night was it?”

“Yes, thanks, Grace. Any chance you ‘n Ollie, gonna let me get some sleep tonight?”

She giggles. “Actually, probably we are, we thought you were in because your phones been blasting Behind Blue Eyes every twenty minutes or so for the last hour. So we’d just… erm… finished taking our revenge.”

He mumbles good night and opens the door to his room. He doesn’t bother with the lights, just throws himself across his bed and grabs his phone. Sure enough, he has a whole series of missed calls from Cas, starting just after 8 and then every fifteen to twenty minutes thereafter.

He tries to ring Cas back but he gets an automated message telling him the number he is trying to call is unavailable. He listens to the messages instead.

The first one is from Benny, asking him to call, but the next is from Cas. He sounds all wrong, anxious and flustered. “I’m sorry to bother you, Dean, I know it’s Friday night and you’re probably busy, but just on the off chance… has Claire tried to ring you? If you could ‘em. If she does. Could you just let me know.”

He flicks his phone to speaker and checks his missed call records, but besides Benny earlier in the day, it's Cas all the way. The next message starts playing and Dean's heart aches for his friend. “She’s gone, Dean. I can’t find her anywhere in the house or outside. Please, if she calls you, please call me back. I’m going to drive into town and see if I can find her.”

Each message he leaves after that, he sounds more desperate, more anxious. Dean skips through the start of each message as soon as he realises it’s not the call to say Cas found her. He’s only got one more message to go when he hears someone knocking on his door and he throws it open.


	16. Interlude 7: I Have Faith In You

_Cas debuts as a fully-fledged adult skier in Whistler. The crowds are amped and the press is full of speculation and hype. It’s well recognised that a good performance here is indicative of the medal contenders in the Olympics in just two weeks in Albertville._

_The change in category might mean that Dean and Castiel can’t catch a few moments here and there during the competition, but Dean quickly recognises the silver lining. He can join the spectators on the mountain and watch Cas compete._

_Normally he just wears his squad kit when he’s out and about, proud as he is to represent his country and there’s substantial support for the US team in Whistler so he would hardly stand out just because he sporting stars and stripes, but he’s going to watch Cas. And he very nearly blew it when he watched the slalom. Cheering for a Russian is about as American as gun control._

_In his defence, Cas was nothing short of spectacular. Qualifying comfortably in the top ten. He’s strong and skilful as he cuts back and forth across the snow, cutting precious hundredths off his time by placing his skis perfectly as he clips gate after gate. Dean hasn’t been able to watch him in person very often, but he’s watched Cas often enough on the reports to know that he was coasting. The final is gonna be something else._

_Benny looks up from where he is sprawled across his bed flicking through a magazine when Dean, fresh out of the shower and wrapped only in a towel, starts picking through his case for clothes._

_“Hot date?” Benny drawls with an amused grin._

_“No, I’m gonna go watch … erm… the Masters' qualifiers, I mean Masters. Ya know, Mike. Bit of team support for Mike.”_

_“Uhuh,” Benny says, knowingly. “Team camaraderie. That’s why you buried the hatchet and went to watch Cole in the slalom qualifiers on Tuesday. Cos you and Cole get on soooo well, now.”_

_Dean has a smarter than normal jacket that Ellen bought him for his birthday so he had something other than his USA puffer jacket to wear. But it’s not quite as warm, so he layers up before he grabs it out of the wardrobe. He shuts the floor to ceiling sliding door a little too hard and it almost jumps its runners. “Shit!”_

_He’s straightening up from pulling tight the drawstrings on his moon boots (What? He can be trendy (ish) and they are super warm ) when something hits his midriff. It’s testament to his reflexes that he catches the balled up fabric. He shakes it open, frowning and looking up at Benny in puzzlement. “It’s a snood, Dean, Thermal lined. It’ll keep your nose and chin warm and keep that priddy boy face hidden from any fans or photographers who might recognise ya. Wouldn’t wanna distract attention from our other All American Boy Scout, would ya.”_

_-_

_Dean finds a spot just up the slope on the apex of the last slow curving bend. It’s a long walk, on a particularly steep bank of deep snow, but well away from the main crowds and it gives a great view of the long sweep from the last timing gate all the way down to the finish and although it’s on an oblique angle he can see one of the giant screens well enough to make out what’s on it._

_He casts an expert eye over the running order, there was a light fall of snow overnight, which has scattered fresh powder over the already compacted surface. The air temperature is near perfect and there is no threat of further snowfall from the clear blue sky. Times should be good and the course will probably only get faster as the day goes on. Both Cas and Masters have drawn in the second half of the quallies, he’s glad on both counts, just because Cas is his friend, doesn’t mean he isn’t patriotic._

_It becomes apparent why not many spectators choose this spot, it falls into shade just after 11 am and bears the brunt of the wind that whistles down the valley. Still, a few other hardy souls have made their way up from the gaudy atmosphere around the finish and mid-afternoon Dean finds himself gratefully accepting a mug of hot soup out of an enormous vacuum flask from an older woman who must decide he needs mothering._

_He’s watching the screen more closely now, as they show each start. With only four to go before his run, Cas is up there somewhere, stoic as ever, solemnly and calmly prepping for his run. He wishes with all his heart he could be there to whisper or mouth_ udachi _and win himself a secret smile._

_Masters qualifies easily taking the top spot at this point, predictably the cameras focus on him as he watches the screens for his time. His angular, handsome face splits in a brief smile and with a nod and a wave to the crowds if he maintains that position he will ski last in the final. It’s a way of heightening the excitement of the race to run the athletes in that order, slowest first._

_The skier before Cas, a friendly and jovial Norwegian called Arne Haugen takes a heavy fall and Dean winces in sympathy. It’s a pretty spectacular sight, a whirligig of skis and poles and limbs ending in a thudding impact into the safety netting. Haugen lies prone in the snow long enough for the watching crowds to go still, a murmur of worry spreading and silencing the normal clamour. Dean suspects Arne is just winded. He saw him signal the approaching marshalls and their careful and swift actions to offer him aid have none of the sharpness that indicate a genuine emergency. Sure enough, he climbs stiffly to his feet and waves weakly to the cameras as they help him towards one of the rescue snowmobiles for the ride of shame down the mountain._

_The inevitable delay would shred Dean’s nerves if he were the one up there, b_ _ut Cas exudes calm. Dean finds himself matching his friend’s breaths as he rocks back and forth in the gate. He sees his lips form the shape of the countdown...Tri… rock… dva… rock… odin... and Cas throws himself through the gate. He tucks quickly into shape, powerful thighs bunching to absorb the bucking of his skis, holding his upper body perfectly steady. He’s down at the first split, but only marginally and the gap has halved at the second, by the time Dean switches his attention from the big screen to the real skier, Dean just knows. He is chanting. Davay, davay, davay._

_Cas is a blur of grey and red and blue as he flashes past and Dean watches him transfixed as he spins to a halt and rips away his goggles to stare up at big screens._

_He’s out-qualified Mike Masters by 17 hundredths of a second. With only three more competitors left to ski and none of the names that are normally in contention for medals, his friend is going to ski last in his first-ever adult competition. Dean punches the air and whoops with exhilaration, while yards below at the finish a distant figure merely gives a twisted half-smile and a gentle wave to the cameras in front of the muted crowds._

_-_

_Dean is humming when he crosses the foyer and waits for the elevator. He slowly strips off his gloves and the borrowed snood while he waits, someone joins him, a tall figure reflected in the etched brass, Dean glances sideways at the perfect profile of Mike Masters. He’s about to say hello when he realises Mike has a cell phone pressed to his ear and is clearly mid-call._

_“Yes, ma’am. I didn’t…no, no, of course, it’s only qualifying. It’s the final that counts.”_

_He falls silent and although Dean can’t hear the exact words he can tell from the tone of the faint buzz from the cell speaker and the thunderous look on Mike’s face that he is being berated._

_Dean shifts awkwardly, unsure of the etiquette, should he move away. He was waiting here first and it’s hardly his fault that Masters is choosing to make a call in the foyer, but it feels wrong to be listening._

_Ding!_

_“I need to go, Mother, I’m just going into the elevator and I’m bound to lose signal… yes, I promise… day after tomorrow I’ll grind the commie bastard to dust.”_

_The lift doors close and Masters explodes as if Dean is not even there, punching the wall of the elevator with a rattling echo that makes the car shake. “Fucking Novak!” he spits. “Fucking, fucking… NOVAK.” Dean shrinks back against the wall, automatically making himself smaller and less threatening. Years of conditioning._

_Mike Masters blinks as if seeing him for the first time, and the handsome charm falls like a mask over the ugly rage. “Hey Winchester, good job in your qualifiers, by the way, your final’s tomorrow right?” And just like that, he chatters on about the competition and the course and the town as if his flare of temper never happened._

_-_

_Dean is in second on the podium with two to go. But they are both excellent competitors and consistently post times well ahead of his own. He holds his breath, he’s skied out of his skin today. Helped it has to be said, by Castiel. The sneaky bastard escaped his minders by feigning a migraine and materialised at Dean’s side just after dinner._

_They sat huddled together in the abandoned viewing lounge as Castiel took him through every bump and twist of the course, warning him about the ice building up under the trees and suggesting a better line into the final bend._

_Their parting words echo in his mind as he stands on the podium waiting to be displaced into the snow like the loser he is. “Time to go, new apparatchik is worst nightmare. He is nice and will come to see I am OK. Tomorrow is your day, Winchester.”_

_Dean had shrugged his maybe. He knows on a good day he is capable of placing, but he never seems to manage to bring his best game in when it counts._

_He startled at the touch when Castiel brought a hand up to rub his cheek. “I have faith in you, Winchester.”_

_Castiel had stood, moonlight shining on his unruly hair, head tilted as if he was considering a particularly tricky puzzle, blue gaze drilling into Dean’s soul. Achingly beautiful. Dean with his new awareness of his burgeoning feelings wanted nothing more than to close the gap between them and take and take and take._

_Then the moment had passed and with a quirky half-smile, Castiel said, “Besides, best competition is now in big boy races.”_

_The cheers behind him snap his attention back to the race, with a self-deprecating nod and a wink the third-place athlete relinquishes his podium. One down, one to go. Dean can scarcely breathe, he is guaranteed a medal. His first placing in this category, he feels dizzy and can’t stop the grin that spreads across his face. He’s mid-table in the points, no threat to the U21 stars in the championship race, but still. A medal. And he’s the youngest competitor in the field._

_-_

_Dean sits on the couch between Jo and Sam. Ellen has long since given up trying to make them all go to bed. Dean was always a lost cause, but Sam and Jo are determined to sit and watch the Olympics with him. The press build-up has been even more intense than usual. Mike Masters is a clear medal contender and his narrow win in Whistler has increased the optimism that he will be Olympic Champion and the fact that it was a Russian beaten into second place just as Bush and Yeltsin have declared the end of the Cold War has driven them into a frenzy._

_“Next time,” Jo says proudly, “we’ll be waiting here alone to watch you.”_

_“Dunno ‘bout that,” Dean says, stretching past her to grab a handful of peanuts. The decision to alternate the Summer and Winter Olympics instead of holding both in the same year has fallen badly for Dean. He would hopefully by a shoo-in by ‘96, but with only a two-year gap, his is an outside chance of selection, but he appreciates the sentiment anyway. “Besides, if by some miracle, I do get picked, won’t you fly out and watch?”_

_“Nah,” Jo says with a wicked wink, “Sam couldn’t risk watching you in person in a cold climate, his tears would freeze his eyelids shut.”_

_Sam grinds his teeth. “I didn’t cry, it was you jumping about like a maniac and lashing me with your hair!”_

_Dean grins and shoves his brother into a headlock. “Smooth Sammy, the old ‘I got something in my eye’ excuse! It was only a silver ya know, what you gonna do if I win a Gold.”_

_"When," Sam savs firmly as he fights his way free._


	17. Something tells me Santa won’t have anything for me

Castiel makes an excuse about having some business in the city on Saturday and gently quashes any suggestion that Dean takes Claire skiing while he’s gone.

It’s not that he wants to deny them the time together, but he does want Dean to rest. He has begun to favour his knee and he might hide it well, but Cas has caught him more than once in a grimace or rubbing at it when he forgets himself. Besides, _“... sweetheart, you know I can never refuse you anything…”_ if his night goes well, Dean may need a lie-in.

Using his chocolate soaked clothing as an excuse to head back a bit earlier and then feigning the need for an early night to excuse them from having dinner together, he congratulates himself on sparing Dean from having to come up with his own excuse for keeping his Friday night free for his date. Claire pouts her disapproval, but Castiel will gladly take the flak, he’d do anything to make Dean’s life a little easier.

Claire is quiet on the way home and shrugs reluctant agreement when Cas suggests she come with him into the city, but they do have a good day in the end. She demolishes a tower of waffles and overly creamed coffee when they stop off for breakfast en route. He lets her shop alone for the morning, handing over his credit card, so she is fully occupied while he hides in a bookstore in lieu of his non-existent ‘business’. Then after lunch, he takes her ice skating. She is as natural on the ice as she is on the slopes and he sees Meg in the way she laughs and dances around him, in a way that both hurts and comforts him bone-deep.

They don’t talk much in the car on the way back. Claire fiddles with the radio until she is happy with the station and settles back into her seat, by the time Cas turns onto the highway Claire is already dozing, using her hat and gloves as a pillow against the window.

She melts his heart when he wakes her gently after shutting off the engine. Her eyes open, soft and wide, and so like the old Claire that he almost gasps, but the moment is fleeting. Once inside, Claire mutters something about taking a shower and disappears into her room. He thinks she’s enjoyed herself today, but he can sense her need for time alone, so he doesn’t push it, just makes himself coffee and sits at the breakfast bar side of the kitchen island gazing out through the floor to ceiling windows at the setting sun.

He smiles to himself when the buzzing phone flashes up DEAN on his notifications and opens the app. With an odd mixture of disappointment and relief he reads the message explaining Dean is meeting with Benny that night. Something to do with scheduling some coaching sessions for the following week. He re-composes his replies four or five times trying to get his tone just right.

**CAS: Glad the bat came through for you.**

**DEAN: Yeah. It’s just group lessons. But it’s all day, every day, next week.**

**CAS: Good to hear. You’ll need to prep tomorrow I take it.**

**DEAN: I can still meet up with you and Claire for lunch if you like.**

**CAS: Don’t worry about us. I’ll explain to Claire. We had a good day today. I took her to the rink and she’s still on a high from skating circles around me.**

Dean’s reply is a laughing emoji and a thumbs up.

-

The rest of the week goes by slowly. He and Claire only ski a couple of times, she suddenly doesn’t want to go to the slopes and in truth neither does Cas. His enthusiasm for skiing has mysteriously evaporated, too. On Thursday, they go on a sleigh ride. It’s twee and cynically aimed at the Christmas trade: It just so happens that there is a grotto and the opportunity for children to visit Santa, right next door to the cabin offering drinks and snacks at the far end. Conveniently they have an hour to kill while the ponies rest before the return trip. Even though they see through it, they can’t resist wandering around the fibreglass figures and heavily decorated trees. Everything glitters or flashes or both and speakers pump a never-ending stream of carols and Christmas songs. Presents are dotted everywhere amongst the decorations. A jaunty sign says good children of every age, be they young, middle-aged or senior-citizen will find a parcel with their name on the label and if they tell the elves where it is they can have a special prize.

“Something tells me Santa won’t have anything for me,” Cas says grinning.

A small woman dressed in stripy leggings and brightly spotted blousy sleeves under a tunic and shorts hands them a bright sheet of paper decorated with a printed present and a shiny little pen. Her name badge says ‘Elf Evee’ and she beams up at him, rouged circles on her cheeks and glitter sparkling on her lips and eyes. “We’ve not failed yet,” she says cheerfully.

Castiel admires her confidence, but if his own name is there amongst the tinsel, he’ll eat one of the oversized fake sugar mice. They find “Claire” in the second area, nestled between “Marley” and “Adam” under a slightly lopsided pear tree, complete with a feather deprived partridge. It took them all of four minutes and they still have another 45 to kill. So they dawdle from room to room, exploring first the Twelve Days of Christmas, and then Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and so on, through various carols and Christmas songs. It’s gaudy and ridiculous and they have it pretty much to themselves.

“Look, there’s Dean!” Castiel snaps around sharply to see Claire pointing with glee at a sparkling blue package tucked under the arm of a snowman. Idiot! He admonishes himself when he realises how disappointed he is that Dean is not inexplicably exploring the same glitter-filled nightmare as them. But he dutifully snaps a picture of Claire and the lopsided snowman holding a present and sends it to his friend with a winking emoji. He knows Dean will reply later when he has a few moments and the fact that he looks forward all day to the ping when Dean’s replies appear in his notifications? Well, that’s a secret between him and his smartphone.

Cas winces as they approach a set of especially sparkly reindeer. “This is almost as bad as that ride you loved so much,” he says alluding to a trip to Disneyland Paris, he and Meg took Claire on for the week of her sixth birthday. Even now when he hears the opening bars of It’s a Small World he suffers something akin to PTSD. Sitting aboard a faux raft, weaving between endless animatronic mice figures in national dress, while the song continues over and over and over. And just when the end seems nigh, and the boat bursts through a set of double doors, there is the whole ghastly spectacle again, only this time made of glitter. He gives a fake shudder and is pleased when Claire gives him an amused look.

“You liked it really, even when Mom said it was like suffocating in a vat of glitter, you said you didn’t mind and we queued up again.”

Castiel remembers the look on the upturned face. Eyes, wide, blue, innocent and pleading. He would have crawled through toxic waste before he let her down. A lifelong aversion to glittery mice was a small price to pay for a few moments of happiness for this precious child. He had much to make up for, after all, he knew he carried a share of the blame for her father’s death. The buzz of his phone drags him back from his maudlin thoughts.

**DEAN: Well I guess that means I ain’t on the naughty list this year**

**CAS: There’s still time**

**DEAN: You’re just sour, cos there ain’t one for you**

Cas doesn’t quite understand the smug little wave Elf Evee gives him until he opens the bag Claire shoves into his lap as they climb onto the sleigh for the return journey. It contains one of those novelty snow globes with a notch to slide your own photo into the back. He turns it over and finds it also has a small bar to personalise it with beads. DEAN.

He looks at Claire and she shrugs. “I thought we might as well get something for our money.”

-

On Friday, he gets up early and sets about making Claire her favourite breakfast. For once his appalling culinary skills hold up, well, at the second attempt anyway. They won’t mention the first soggy, slightly burnt effort that almost clogged the waste disposal. The white choc chip pancakes are perfect. He hulls a huge pile of strawberries and sets the table with syrup and a bowl of whipped cream. He pours pomegranate juice and milk into pitchers and admires his handiwork while the coffee machine spits to completion. He is just setting a mug of the rich smelling brew by her place setting, over-sugared and heavy on the cream, just how she likes it, when he hears the click of the bathroom lock and Claire appears, damp and pink-cheeked from her shower.

“And I didn’t even hear the smoke alarm,” she says wryly as she takes her seat.

Castiel sips at his coffee in lieu of responding or pulling a face.

“These are actually good,” she says moments later, through a mouthful.

“You could try sounding a little less surprised,” Cas says, but he is far from offended. “Is there anything you need or want for the next few days? They issued a storm warning for overnight and into tomorrow, it might come to nothing, but the realtor did warn me that this place can get cut off for a few days with heavy snowfall. We could always decamp into town, I’m sure I can get a suite somewhere if you’d rather…”

“Will we lose internet?”

Cas shakes his head. “We have a satellite hook up and there’s a back up ginny in the basement.”

“Then, we’re good,” Claire says a little too easily. Cas eyes her suspiciously. “I have access to Netflix and Disney +, and considering there’s only the two of us here, you seem to have enough food for several months. Like I said: We’re good.”

“Sure you don’t want to do something today before it hits,” he says.

“I _said_ we’re good,” she snaps “Unless YOU need to go to town. I know you must be bored of me already…”

“Claire, no… that’s not what I meant…I...”

Her face which is glowering breaks into a beaming smile and she laughs at him. “Psych!”

Cas shakes his head. “Not funny Claire, not funny,” but he’s still smiling. He’ll gladly be the butt of all her jokes and teasing so long as she is happy here with him.

-

Cas hums as he steps into his ensuite shower. One of the many things he insisted on after he finalised the deal with the realtor was a complete overhaul of the plumbing. Years on the circuit have taught him the value of good water pressure and heat on demand.

It’s been a good day. He and Claire have spent the time idling, sometimes together and sometimes not, but the atmosphere in the cabin is calm and the ‘sometimes not’ has been about wanting to do different things, not needing to steer clear of each other. So yes, it’s been a good day. In fact, it’s been an excellent week. In fact, there is just one thing that would have made it perfect…

A few lyrics nag at the back of his mind and he realises what he is humming. Damn Dean and his love of rock and metal. He half sings, half hums as he soaps his hair, _life is ours, we did it our way._ He rolls his neck letting the heat of the water soak into his muscles, as the soap suds slide down his back and over the curve of his ass. He lets his hands and his imagination drift, teasing himself with soft touches and images of a man he can only dream of having. It’s not long before he’s so aroused he thinks one touch will make him explode. It doesn’t, of course, but once he gives in to the urge and begins rutting into his own hand it’s all over in seconds rather than minutes.

He leans, spent, wobbly-kneed and a little breathless against the relative cool of the shower wall, the tiny mosaic tiles pressing square patterns into his shoulder, while his heart slows and he ceases to feel its echo in every pulsing blood vessel in his body. So he is completely relaxed, warm and sated when disaster strikes as disasters so often do without any kind of warning.

He finishes his shower and idly dries himself, dragging on a soft old pair of sweatpants His fingers close onto his favourite t-shirt, so old and threadbare that it is hard to read the ACDC logo and in truth, it is in serious danger of simply carrying straight onto the ground when he slips it on if the myriad of tiny holes and thin patches ever join forces. He wanders barefoot into the massive main room, grateful for the underfloor heating. The sun has long since dipped over the side of the mountains but has yet to set, he can see the slopes opposite still bathed in the peachy light.

Music floats along the corridor, it’s heavy on bass and relatively upbeat and he likes it, but beyond that he’s clueless. He must pay more attention to what she listens to. He roots through the fridge, wondering about dinner, he’s not exactly hungry yet, but he will be soon. There are eggs and the basics and he has a freezer full of all the things he remembers Claire liking as a kid, he shuts the fridge. Maybe they can cook together, or at least choose together.

“Claire!” It’s pointless really, the volume of the music as he edges down the corridor is loud enough to obscure pretty much anything. He raps at the door to no response, so calling her name, he knocks a little harder, using his knuckles and the wood swings away from him so that the door stands just ajar.

“Claire? I wondered if you…” his sentence peters away as he sticks his head around the door. He barely registers the clothes scattered across the bed, or the wardrobe hanging open. The lack of all her personal nicknacks on the bedside table catches his eye first, then his own laptop, standing open on her vanity, it’s screen open on an email from Charlie, finally, his full attention is drawn to the new cell phone he gave to Claire as a Thanksgiving gift, just a few weeks ago, its screen smashed as if someone has stamped it into the floor.


	18. Interlude 8: Bitch is out to getcha

FROM: charlie@otr-investigations.com

TO: Cas@novak.com

Subject: Security

Attachment (1file)

Hi hotshot,

Dotty’s arranging to courier new phones out to you. Carry on using your old email addies so they don’t suspect anything, but make sure you only use this one for anything confidential.

New phones have full tracking service so we can keep tabs on you and Claire if we need to. Bitch is out to getcha, Cas. Any way she can. take care.

x

red

**ATTACHMENT**

**Security report: OTR Investigations**

**Lead Investigator. Miss D Baum**

**Technical Support Advisor. Miss C Bradbury**

**Attendance at the primary residence of MR. C. NOVAK following an alleged home invasion.**

**The premises is a large four bedroomed property with attached garage in secluded grounds. The building is arranged over two floors with a submerged basement. Access to the property is limited to three doorways. The door to the front aspect, half glass and double French windows to the rear of the property, on initial inspection appeared undisturbed but the connecting door to the garage had been crudely shattered, damage caused by some type of pick or axe, most likely a fire axe.**

**The interior of the property was in considerable disarray, drawers and cupboards were emptied into a pile in each room and a number of light fittings and ornaments had been broken or displaced. Items of furniture were overturned.**

**No valuables were removed from the premises and neither medicine cabinets nor washroom cupboards were disturbed. The recessed safe was exposed and scratch marks and superficial denting to the coating suggest an attempt to pry open the door.**

**Law enforcement conclusion is an inexpert and ultimately unsuccessful home invasion, and the case has been filed as such. I am of the opinion that despite this, Det. Henrikson has suspicions regarding the incident, but following a call to the precinct chief, I am satisfied that the department's current high workload will prevent further investigation of the case.**

**D. Baum**

**Digital interrogation of the installed monitoring system yielded the following:**

**the alarm system was expertly deactivated at 11.46 pm. The alarm was reset and triggered at 3.04 am, giving the intruders several hours uninterrupted access.**

**three individuals all wearing forensic suits and gloved gained ingress via the french windows to the rear of the property.**

**subjects 1 and 2 worked through the premises, removing and replacing lamps in various light fittings. Their movements were precise, directed and coordinated.**

**subject 3 spent approximately 2 hours conducting a thorough and efficient search of the entire premises.**

**subject 3 opened the safe, using a professional digital access code device and photographed the documents and items inside, before carefully replacing them and re-securing the safe.**

**subject 1 unscrewed and replaced smoke/monoxide monitors in each room.**

**subject 2 followed behind emptying drawers, knocking items from shelves, etc.**

**subject 2 planted the package in the closet found by the homeowner prior to calling 911**

**subject 1 used a crowbar and small axe to mark the safe**

**subjects 1 and 2 left via the garage door.**

**subject 3 reset the alarm and left via the front door.**

**subject 2 then broke down the garage door using the small axe, triggering the house alarm.**

**Follow up:**

**a full scan of the premises confirms that all the previously discovered listening devices have been removed and no new devices were found.**

**testing of the scales and equipment in the ‘package’ yield traces of both cocaine and heroin. The powder contained in the four or five wraps was cocaine cut with a small amount of caffeine.**

**The perpetrators;**

**Subject 1:**

**Approximate 5’10” tall**

**Medium build**

**Left-handed**

**Accent was southern Irish, although use of dialect suggests time spent in New York.**

**Shoe size 10 or 11, as per imprint left in impression pad concealed beneath bedroom rug.**

**Subject 2:**

**Approximate 6’2” in height.**

**Heavy build**

**Possible first name/nickname/pseudonym as used by Subject 1 - Mart, Art - audio is indistinct.**

**Subject 3:**

**Approximate 5’4”.**

**Build slight.**

**C. Bradbury**

**Conclusion**

**The home invasion was predominantly carried out for the purposes of removing the listening and monitoring devices.**

**The crude staging was intended to arouse the suspicions of law enforcement rather than as a result of inexperience.**

**Subject 3 demonstrated considerable skill and professionalism in both the alarm deactivation and the use of safe cracking equipment. There are only a limited number of possibilities for their identity. This in conjunction with the overall modus operandi point towards the Men Of Letters organisation.**

**The drug paraphernalia was deliberately placed to be easily found. It is most likely this was for law enforcement to discover as part of the rudimentary search following the ‘break-in’. Thus causing the arrest and discredit of the householder. Although it is possible it was intended for the householder to find as a threat of incrimination.**

**Until any of the false information seeded in the safe is used or leaked it is impossible at present to conclusively prove the ultimate perpetrator, but it should be noted that if this is the work of the MoL they are expensive and work only on the basis of personal recommendation for the elite echelons of society**

**D. Baum & C. Bradbury**


End file.
